


Play By The Rules

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [9]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (but really fucked up), (let's see who reads the tags), (those last two bode well for future chapters), Accidental Bonding, Accidental Marriage, Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Dominant Bottom, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dubious everything tbh, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Porn With Plot, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter would be lying if he said he was surprised.</p><p>Because, to be honest, how could anyone expect any less? He’s awesome. He’s a Ravager. He’s <em>Star-Lord</em>. Of course he’s gonna be a goddam Alpha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Enjoy, my treat.**

Peter would be lying if he said he was surprised.

Because, to be honest, how could anyone expect any less? He’s awesome. He’s a Ravager. He’s Star-Lord. Of course he’s gonna be a goddam Alpha; it goes without saying, doesn’t it?

And so, when he hits sweet eighteen and catches his first musky whiff of an Omega in heat and his cock all but thuds off the inside of his zipper like it’s being blown up with a pressurized tyre-pump, Peter treats his crewmates to a giddy smirk and heads over to buy the girl a drink.

The drink isn’t strictly necessary. Omegas only come to places like this if they’re in want of a dicking, and heaven knows they ain’t choosy, the delightful little sluts. Heck, Peter could probably roll her onto her belly here, flip up the back of her skirt and get to it, and she’d be egging him on the whole way.

The Ravagers are expecting as such, if the way they’re snickering into their tankards is any indication. It’s not like Peter’s a virgin – while no one in their right mind’d screw a kid, the staunch boundaries of Nova Corps consent ages don’t apply to the ass end of the galaxy. They’ve seen Peter fumble through a clumsy chat-up a hundred times, even if half the time he walks away downcast.

Okay; three quarters of the time. But that’s not going to happen here. It can’t. He’s an Alpha and she’s an Omega, and they fit together like space and stars.

Peter, extremities tingling, is suddenly unsure of whether his lust is all natural, or if half has been amplified by the urgent need to prove himself a proper Alpha, worthy of the Ravager flame. He spares a glance over one shoulder to find Yondu rolling his eyes, Kraglin making smirky ‘shoo’ motions, Horuz louring in impotent jealousy, and Isla no doubt whipping up a betting pool. Not that the pool will be necessary. They all know how this is gonna go.

 _This is it_ , Peter tells himself, striding over the grubby plastic floor of this interport spacestop. His trenchcoat flares behind him, and civilians scurry out of his way; Peter watches their passage with a self-directed nod. _This is it; I’m a man, now_.

And men – Alphas – kick ass, take names, and fuck Omegas. Not necessarily in that order.

There is such a thing as common courtesy, though. Now that Peter’s old enough to start sniffing out pheromones, he figures he’s old enough to control himself, behave like a gentleman. It gives him a special niggle of pride to imagine treating this Omega like he would any other potential bedmate.

No doubt the other Ravagers go full-on cavalier when they’re after a fuck – but while Peter may run with them (may even occasionally crave their acceptance), it’s good to know that he doesn’t always have to behave like them. Nope: this’ll be his good deed of the day. Peter’s gonna make this Omega squeal and whimper and moan – not that that’s hard – but he’s gonna call her a goddess while he’s doing it.

He likes to think her smile’s flattered as he sidles up close enough to bump elbows and scoots a stack of credit chits over the counter top.

It certainly should be. Omega’s get approached by all sorts – or at least, they did back on Earth. That’s one of the few things Peter remembers: his grotty Alpha neighbour with the sagging belly and the runny nose, who’d drag bombshells home from the bar every Friday, girls who looked like the actresses on the posters in Peter’s room. When Peter asked his grandpa how he managed it, his grandpa snorted and muttered ‘Omegas’ under his breath.

Compared to most of the jerkasses at this bar, Peter’s a prime specimen. Heck, imagine if he’d been _Yondu_.

Peter doesn’t look at the Omega, confident enough that her gaze’ll be on him as he summons the barman. “Two swizzlers, please. Make the lady’s a double.” Then, and only then, does he turn to deliver his brightest smile.

Her eyes are painted with dark liquid smears, but the pupils glimmer eerie-white. They halve at him, lazy and slow, crescents of silver in her rouge-cheeked face.

“How do you know I like swizzlers?”

Other than the eyes, she’s bog-standard Xandarian – and pretty with it. Peter, yet to grow into the blustering confidence that’ll guide him through hook-ups and rejections across many a galactic dive in the future, would usually harbor a little trepidation about approaching her so boldly.

But hell. She’s an Omega, right? She can play hard-to-get all she wants; beneath that crisp-clean exterior she’s _drooling_.

Peter does a hasty check for tentacles, remembering that misadventure with the A’askvarian. Then, when the examination turns up no more appendages than he’s comfortable with, he leans in to run his nose along her neck.

Her hair tickles to his cheeks: delicately fragranced, engine oil and lemongrass. But the wafts of an Omega’s heat are even stronger; Peter buries his face in her curls and inhales until his lungs ache.

“I gotta good nose for these things,” he murmurs.

The woman makes a startled snort in the back of her throat. She jerks away. “You’re also coming on strong, for a brat.”

Peter can’t help but notice though, that she downs her drink in one gulp and clacks it down on the bartop, circling her finger at the barman for a refill. Peter grants her wish with a generous nod. He likes to spoil his ladies, he decides. And if they’re rude to him – well, that just makes them feisty, doesn’t it?

His blood’s sizzling in his crotch, even from that aborted contact. Her proximity intoxicates him. His fingers itch with the urge to bury themselves in her thick black hair – but no. She wants him to play this game? Pretend he doesn’t know she’ll spread her legs at a snap of his fingers? Peter’ll play – and he’ll enjoy it, too.

“This brat’s also an Alpha,” he says. He jerks a proud thumb at his puffed-out chest. “And this Alpha would love to have the company of a beautiful Omega like yourself tonight.”

“Y’know, most folks start an introduction with their name?” Her laughter sits just this side of mocking. But Peter can smell her breath, laced with sweet alcohol, almost as potent as the heat-musk swirling from her nethers. Bubbles of anticipation fizz effervescent in his gut.

“Peter Jason Quill,” he says. His voice doesn’t even jolt about the octaves; thank fuck he got over that hurdle of puberty before hitting his first rut. He slides onto the stool, being sure to drag his knee an inch up her thigh, before making sultry eyes at her over the rim of his glass. “And you? Can’t keep referring to you as ‘gorgeous’ in my head.”

The woman squints at him. “Is there something wrong with your face…?”

Must be from one of them cultures where bedroom-eyes aren’t a thing. Peter relents, and forks out another three credit chips to cover his own second round.

“Amazed at your beauty,” he says, with a wink.

“Your eye is spasming.”

Peter rolls with it. “Yes – I’ve actually got this terrible condition… It can only be cured by the love of a foxy Omega like yourself. So how about we adjourn here, and –“

The woman snorts air through her nostrils. “You haven’t been playing this game long, have you?”

Peter’s mouth flaps a moment, before he catches himself and transitions into a seamless leer. His fresh drink is clacked down on the counter, and he cradles it between sweating palms. “We oughta go back to my M-ship, and then you can teach me –“

 _That_ makes her smile. “You? Have an M-ship? You scarcely look old enough to be a rookie, Ravager.”

Oh, Peter can work with this. He straightens his shoulders, rising from his casual lean. “Oh yeah. Next big up-and-coming, I am. Captain gave me my own ship today, and it’s in need of a christening. Y’know, before I have to go out and manage all those dangerous and deadly missions. Solo, of course.”

“Solo,” repeats the woman, looking highly dubious. “A Ravager Ace, at your age.”

And okay, perhaps he’s exaggerating. Yeah, he’s gotten the ship – but he’s under strict orders that he’ll only be flying in formation until he’s thirty. Stupid Yondu and his stupid rules and demands that Peter fly in straight lines and not do unnecessary loops while he’s in the passenger seat, and that if he ‘ _still flies like a child he can damn well be treated like one_ ’. Stupid, stupid Yondu.

Stupid Yondu, who taught Peter how to lie.

“Oh yeah,” he says, knocking down his second drink. He breathes long and hard to dissipate the alcohol-burn. “Yondu says I’m as good as he ever was, at least.”

It shows how needy the Omega really is, if she falls for a deception that obvious.

“Just once,” she clarifies, tilting her empty glass towards him. Her knees angle against his, thighs rubbing, and Peter can’t help but glance down. He shudders as his heart revs and his gaze rivets on the just-visible triangle of fabric, gleaming in the darkness of her underskirt. “You and me. For luck – on all your solos. Yeah?”

Peter’s grin is too goofy to be wolfish, although he makes a valiant attempt.

“I’ll drink to that!”

 

* * *

 

He saunters out of the _Milano_ the next morning. Stretches. Cracks his spine. Swears, when he realizes his is the only M-ship in dock, and pulls up Yondu’s name on his comms contact list.

The first thing he hears is laughter. Loud, obnoxious laughter. Peter, teeth gritted – and head smarting from the alcohol and the artificial, too-white space station sunlight – waits it out. Yondu finishes with a noisy snort and tilts the camera up so Peter can see the rest of the Bridge crew, fanned out at their stations.

They’re back on the _Eclector_. The bastards. All turn to stare when Yondu hollers:

“Look who’s up, boys! Guess the chick wore our lil’ Starlord out!”

Peter scoffs, and shades his eyes with one hand so he can glower without scrunching his nose up in pained constipation. “An Omega? Wear me out? As if!” And then, just in case they haven’t gotten the message – “I’m an Alpha, y’know!” Capable of taking hardship. Mastering challenges. Worthy of the Ravagers’ respect.

Yondu’s snigger’s an ugly thing: all crooked yellow teeth and wicked red eyes. “Yeah, and you ain’t earned enough to buy that M-ship off me outright yet. So if it’s not on ship by mid-shift, I’m sayin’ it’s stole and puttin’ a bounty on your head. Oh yeah. And docking yer cut.”

“What? What?” Peter sputters, but he’s already jogging back up the gangway gradient, beating the closing sequence into the hatch coder as he goes. “How does that even make sense? I don’t have the credits for an M-ship so you stop me from making more credits…? Dammit, Yondu; I’m an adult now! An Alpha! Would you quit treating me like I’m some sorta –“

“Tick, tick, boy!” The comm fizzles out. Yondu’s grinning mug leaves a ghostly impression on Peter’s eyeballs, as if he’s been staring into a blue light for too long. Peter swears and stomps into the main hanger – then blinks at the woman on his pilot’s seat, unashamedly naked and combing her long dark hair.

“Uh –“

“Oh, you remember me?” Her smile cuts cold as a whetted icicle. “Could’ve at least stayed in bed until I woke up.”

Peter blinks. Then says, with all honesty – “I forgot you were here.”

“Yeah. That’s just what I want to hear.” She finishes tugging the bristles through her mane, then pushes a button on the handle to compact the brush into a neat little square which can be slotted in her clutch, and proceeds to purse her lips at her reflection in the cockpit windscreen, evidently in no hurry. “Well, kid. I’m not gonna lie. You weren’t exactly exemplar. But there’s promise there, if you get some more practice between here and Betelgeuse, and who knows, maybe next time your crew swings by…”

For a second, Peter’s too stumped to formulate the reply he’s been shaping – _I’m sorry, but you need to leave; I’m kinda on a tight schedule._ When he finds his voice it’s prickly with confusion, and a fair bit of offended pride.

“Not exemplar? I’m an Alpha! How can I _not_ be exemplar?”

Her pale eyes glance to his in the glass. Space’s looming cavern is as good as any polished silver mirror-back: it captures her withering glare perfectly. “Seriously? I have to spell this out for you? Can’t your Ravager-buddies do that?”

His Ravager buddies who are expecting him in… fifteen minutes. Shit. Peter makes a strangled squeak. He shakes his dashboard chronometer as if he can rewind time through desperation alone. Yondu might’ve been joking about the whole bounty thing – _maybe_ , if he’s in a good enough mood to be messing Peter around for the hell of it.

But the captain is as scroogey a skinflint as they come. He’ll siphon a quarter of Peter’s cut to his own accounts for every minute the Terran’s slacking. Knowing his luck, Peter’ll wind up _owing_ next time he goes on a job.

“Aw man, look, I’d love to continue this debate, but I’m already gonna have to break a bunch of space-speed regulations if I wanna meet my deadline. So… think you could see yourself off ship while I start up the thruster countdown?”

“Wow,” the girl says flatly. “You’re quite the romantic.”

Ah. Peter knows how to deal with this.

He pulls himself, straightening from waist to shoulder – regrets it, as his head clonks off the ceiling beam; fuck Yondu for giving him a small ship, he’s just jealous Peter’s taller than him. Once he’s rubbed the worst of the ache away, he channels the vibe of the biker-guys back at the bar his neighbor used to frequent, and plasters on his best superior smirk.

“Sorry darling. Alphas don’t have time for _romance._ ”

For some reason, the girl doesn’t seem impressed.

“Ugh,” she says. She pshes herself off the chair and saunters into the bunkroom to find some wearable clothes. Which is the eventuality Peter had been striving for.

So why doesn’t it feel like a victory?

 

* * *

 

“So,” says Kraglin, swinging one leg after another over the back of the sofa-like seat in the centre of the rec room. “Figured it was time we gave you a talk.”

Peter, glumly scouring his plasma pistol and mourning the loss of the sweet half of his next pay-cheque, pushes the pipecleaner into the nozzle and wiggles until scorched ash dapples his toecaps. “’Bout what?” he mutters.

“Well – y’know. Now you’re a man and all. As ya do like t’keep reminding us.” Kraglin fiddles with something on his belt, a portable projector-unit. And suddenly – _woah_ – there’s a massive three dimensional coochie carving through the leather of his left jacket arm. Peter flinches like he’s been jabbed with a Nova shockstick. The pixels fizz and reassemble, and Kraglin chuckles in cold amusement. “Yondu was right. Y’really are just a brat.”

Peter pulls himself off the floor, glaring with grim determination past the massive glowing labia lips – really, Kraglin; _really?_ He decides to focus on the less insulting part of that statement. “Oh yeah? So why isn’t he here teaching me himself? Figured he’d get a kick outta this.”

“He said it’d be better comin’ from us.” Kraglin, smirking, angles the projector until the holo-clit’s brushing Peter’s nose (who holds his ground and sneers, at least until Kraglin presses a button and it transfigures into a biologist’s too-symmetrical rendition of a knot-sporting cock, at which point he flails like he’s attempting to fend off an imaginary attacker). “Aw. Scared of yer own tackle?” Behind him, Czar and Isla share a chuckle. Peter suspects it might be at his expense. He squares his jaw.

“I’m not scared! But you honestly think I don’t know about this shit already? I mean – you remember my eighteenth, right?” The bar – the girl. That’d been a week ago. Peter’s still not convinced he’s over the hangover. The pulses of light from the holo-genitalia, which turn slow revolutions around his head, jabber at his brainstem like necrotizing mites.

“There’s a difference ‘tween doin’ and knowin’,” Isla sagely informs him. Czar nods along.

“Right. Can we get on with it? I got better crap to do than teach dumb Terran about the Betans and the Ba-Bani.”

Kraglin starts his lecture loud enough to cut him off mid-sentence. “Now we’re all Alphas here, yeah?”

There’s no getting out of it. Peter only wishes that the older Ravagers seemed as uncomfortable with this situation as he is. But he gains confidence from their seriousness, as uncharacteristic as it is – he expected them to be staving off the giggles by now. While it’s hard to concentrate on Kraglin’s face, illuminated by the giant photonic penis floating a foot above their heads, Peter does his best.

Stubble glints in the hollows of the first mate’s cheeks. Light twinkles off the scraggly hairs as he talks:

“…And all Alphas, no matter their primary sex, will sprout a dick and a knot when they go into rut. Vice versa for Omegas, and Betas don’t go into season, so they never vary from what they’re born with. Ruts and heats can come about cyclical-like, or in reaction to their opposite. Familiar?”

Peter nods, not needing to feign his boredom. This is all classic sex ed. Heck, he’d never been old enough to take a class on the Dynamics before he was abducted, but he’s picked up this much on his own – both from practice, and from unlimited access to the Nova infoweb. Thank fuck Ravagers are firm believers in freedom of information.

Peter hasn’t exactly researched; not in the conventional sense – but there’s been plenty of frustrated nights spent locked in the bog block with pilfered handgel and pirated pornos. He knows the basics. He knows the selection of slots into which tab A can be inserted. He’s already figured that while he prefers women, he’s not overly fussed about what a person’s got down below in a pinch. Seeing as your Alpha-Omega status doesn’t depend on what you’re packing in your pants, he supposes that out here in the big wide galaxy, nobody cares whether you bat for guys or girls.

“So,” Kraglin continues, “Y’know how to fuck an Omega without mating them?”

“Don’t bite their nape.”

“An’ without knocking ‘em up?”

Peter could yawn. “Make sure they're on Blockers,” he drones. "Or wrap it." At least Kraglin’s not being patronizing; patting him on the head for answering correctly. His questions might be stupidly simple, but Peter figures there’s plenty more scope for potential mortification in this scenario, and he ought to play along out of gratitude that Kraglin’s not milking it, if for nothing else.

“Yup. That’ll save ya from most of the nastier infections out there too,” Isla adds. Shudders. “Trust me. Anything you can do to avoid them’s worth it.”

Peter pales. “Tell me you haven’t brought pictures of those too.”

“You can look ‘em up in your own sweet time.” Kraglin clicks the projection off and peers at him through the resettling gloom. There’s no mirth in the set to his brows, not even the spiteful schadenfreude that usually creeps over his gaunt features whenever Peter’s uncomfortable. “One last thing before we let ya go back t’playing with yer gun – y’know to quit when the other one says so?”

Of course he does. In fact, Peter’s mildly offended at the insinuation that he’d even consider –

He folds his arms. “Yes,” he says stiffly. “I’m not a rapist, Kraglin. Sheesh.”

“Yeah? Well don’t go around randomly sniffing girls’ hair at bars neither. S’creepy. And folks might get the wrong idea.” Oh. Of course; he’d seen that. They all had. Peter bristles.

“She was an Omega!”

“So?”

What does he mean: _so?_ Peter spreads his hands in baffled frustration. “It’s different!”

Kraglin’s eyebrows cinch in, lips hiking around a nasty sneer. “Listen here, kid – I dunno what they taught you on Terra, but on this ship at least –“

“They didn’t teach me nothing on Terra,” Peter can’t help but shout. “Because _somebody_ abducted me!”

“Okay,” says Yondu from the doorway. “That's enough.”

Aw crap. Peter wilts. Bitching about his kidnapping in front of said kidnapper is a surefire way to get himself laughed out of the room. Yondu’ll be mocking him for weeks…

“Boy? C’mere. With me, now.”

Kraglin swallows. “Uh. Sir? You think thas a good idea–“

“What?” Yondu interrupts. “Quill’s a big Ravager now; he don’t need Kraggles to make his decisions for him.” His voice rasps harsh and rude, and Kraglin wilts like a flora colossus in a desert, any hint of protest lost. Subordinate successfully cowed, Yondu calls across to Peter: “Hey, boy! Wanna fuck an Omega?”

Does he ever? Peter frowns. “Uh, yeah? S’what they’re for, right?”

Isla and Czar are finding somewhere else to look. Kraglin, for some reason, looks like he’s resisting the urge to facepalm. Yondu’s smile, on the other hand, has just gone from fierce to insufferably smug.

“C’mon then,” he says. Leers really. And jerks his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of his cabin, before turning and striding off. Peter gawks after him. His mouth feels oddly loose; it takes him a moment to realise that’s because his jaw’s hanging open like a broken shuttle-hatch.

“Uh. Is he saying. What I think he’s –“

Kraglin grumbles something exasperated into his fist. “Why don’tcha go find out?”

 

* * *

 

 

Turmoil clouds Peter's head as he staggers after Yondu. It can’t be… Can it? Whatever Yondu’d insinuated, it’s gotta be by accident. He must keep a stash of Omegas hidden somewhere on the ship for whenever he’s feeling randy, the gross old perv.

Because heck. He’s captain. Of the _Eclector_. Admiral of the whole fucking Ravager fleet – and you just don’t get to that position of power without being a badass the likes of which makes whole Nova platoons quail in their spit-shone boots.

That he might be… An…

Peter doesn’t even want to think about it. Because it’s unthinkable, right?

Although he can’t deny that there’s perhaps a weeny bit of hope, stirring low in his guts. Or possibly that’s just plain ol’ horniness: horniness driven by the constant sting that gnaws on him whenever Yondu’s around. It vacillates between the yearn for a mentor’s approval, and a blazing rankling, because Yondu had whipped him away from everything he’d ever known, then had the gall to claim he’d done him a favor for it.

If Yondu really is… What he’d suggested…

Well, Peter’s not gonna lie. Having any form of power over him makes his dick rise.

All thoughts on _that_ subject are swiftly dropped. Because the moment he climbs down through the hatch into Yondu’s room, the trapdoor clanging ominously closed above, a boot kicks his heels from under him. Peter lands on his back with an _oof_ , cracking his head on the ladder.

“Ow! Hey, what the f-“

Yondu’s… Yondu’s on his lap, a firm blue weight.

When did that happen?

He grinds down hard, thighs splayed wide, knees resting either side of Peter’s waist. It’s hard and fierce and filthy, and Peter can feel the muscle of his ass through the thin leather separating them. And fuck, _fuck_ , his zipper’ll start shredding if he keeps that up, and Peter can smell him, and he’s so stiff it aches…

But his mind’s still a pace behind, a beat out-of-sync. “Woah – woah! What’re you… Yondu!”

“Shuddup and let me get myself warmed up.” Yondu angles forwards, palms slapping on either side of Peter’s head for balance, caging him between rough blue skin and cold steel. There’s the outline of his cock, pulsing hot as Peter’s own and just as hard. And beneath it… Beneath it, there’s a little more give in the leather than there ought to be.

Peter swallows hard. He calms the lightheaded pound of blood in his temples, willing away the bruising blaze from where he’d bumped his head. Tentatively, he brings up his hands to settle on Yondu’s rocking hips – only for them to be slapped sharply away.

“Oh no. Keep ‘em on the floor, boy. Shoulders down – you’re gonna lay there nice and still for me, and I’mma ride you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

That’s not how this works. Alphas are supposed to take charge, dominate, _fuck_ … This is wrong and odd and… And fuck, but Peter’s still battling with the revelation that his captain, his mentor, is a goddam Omega. The jigsaw pieces don’t fit, no matter how Peter slots ‘em; the puzzle hangs bereft and unfinished in his mind.

How can an Omega lead a Ravager horde? Bring down swathes of enemies? Command respect – Alphas’ respect, at that!

Yondu must be the exception to the rule.

Peter groans as Yondu yanks down his fly and lets the taut leather crotch panel peel away from his dick. The captain gives it a firm stroke, grinning to himself. The skin around the fat red head bunches and stretches, rasping drily under his calloused palms. Peter winces until Yondu, warningly tapping his shoulder in a command that needs no words to communicate – _stay_ – drools warm spit into the space between palm and cock, smearing it up and down.

After that it’s slicker, easier. Yondu jerks him slow and teasing, the same pace at which he’s rubbing that promising, unseen space beneath his cock over Peter’s ribbed thigh-guard.

The dark red cabinlight glints off a capped tooth, illuminating his implant as if the crystal wedge has grown around a penny-candle. Peter feels a weird flare of fondness, out of place amid the blazing arousal and the usual Yondu-related stew-pot of animosity and irritation.

Yeah, Yondu’s no angel. Not by a long way. His skull is patchy with silver scar-tissue, a lattice carving across his right temple from a frag grenade ten years back that only gets mentioned when Yondu’s blood-to-alcohol ratio is one-to-two, and he obviously isn’t fussed about taking a punch to the face if it’ll get him his objective. Add to that that he’s probably getting on for mid-thirties while Peter’s yet to exceed his teenage years (and that he’d kinda single-handedly ruined Peter's life before he turned twelve) and you’ve got one utter shit-pot of a relationship in the making.

But whatever. Peter’s known Yondu long enough to get the gist: Captain don’t do sentiment. Whether this is a continuation of Kraglin’s lesson, or the Centaurian’s just horny, what they’re doing now is no more and no less than it appears.

Sex.

Sweaty, smelly, cruel and dirty sex.

No _sentiment_ necessary.

The captain shuffles along his thighs, letting Peter’s bare cock scrape him ass-to-balls, his own pants still intact. The leather wall is soft and maddeningly impenetrable. Peter ruts in helpless frustration as Yondu chuckles and holds himself up, hovering an inch too high for Peter to get anything but a whisper of friction. “Whassat? You want in here?”

Yes. More than anything. Peter nods, teeth gritting on a whine.

“I can’t hear ya.”

Damn, but the thought of himself – an Alpha, for fuck’s sake – begging? It shouldn’t be this hot.

Even as his will curdles, the fire in Peter’s gut burns traitorously higher. He can’t be a slave to it though. Can’t let himself be tugged along by the riptide of this moment, not when everything he’s ever fought for is at stake.

Alpha-status. Respect. Acceptance.

Ignoring Yondu’s previous order, he surges upright, snarling, to reverse their positions.

He gets halfway. Yondu nuts him, crashing their foreheads together hard enough to send stars spinning out of Peter’s peripherals. Of course, he’s aided by the implant. Cheating bastard.

Peter collapses in defeat, and Yondu continues as if uninterrupted.

“Beg me, boy.”

He’s in what Peter thinks of as ‘space-pants’, the sort he still finds too weird to wear, with the zipper that goes all the way round the back. Now, as Peter watches, shaking the ring from his ears, Yondu pinches the metal chit and rasps it down in agonizing increments until his crotch is a bare blue picture framed in an oval of metal and leather. His cock’s a little shorter than Peter’s but just as thick, darkening to purple at the tip. And under it…

Peter tenses his leg muscles, squeezing his abdomen until he’s certain he’s not gonna blow his load. Because how embarrassing would that be? Him – an Alpha – jizzing before he’s even put it in, coming undone at the sight of his captain’s cunt.

But… it looks so soft. And wet. And blue.

Peter breathes deep, savouring the tanging lace of sharp-on-sweet. It’s the same aroma that’d billowed around the Omega in the bar, unmistakable and heady – although Yondu’s is offset with M-ship engine oil and leather, rather than perfume and scented shampoo. Yondu works a hand underneath his body to flatten Peter’s cock against his belly. Then cruelly sits across it, splitting his moist little mound with one lip to either side of the shaft. His balls rest on the head.

“Beg,” he says again.

Is it really so much to ask? Peter’s resolution shivers apart with each slow slide of Yondu’s cunt: back and forth, back and forth, sawing stickily over him, coating him in warm juice.

Peter bucks his hips at the apex of each little thrust and knows he’s nipping his clit when Yondu growls. And okay, so he’d been hoping to make him whimper. But this is totally hot too.

“Beg,” orders Yondu for a final time, voice all husk and gravel. And Peter does.

“Oh fuck, Yondu, please! Please, let me fuck you!”

“Thought you’d never fuckin’ ask.” Yondu rises, flicking Peter’s nose when he moans at the loss. Then holds his throbbing prick erect, a hot-blooded javelin. He wriggles over the spongey head and lets gravity impale him the rest of the way.

They rest there, just a moment. Peter’s gratified to note that Yondu’s forearms are shaking, where he’s propping himself on Peter’s shoulders. Or he would be gratified, if he could muster any edge of competitiveness against the tide of need currently frying every circuit in his brain.

“Oh – oh…”

It’s the same as when he’d fucked the Omega-girl, of course it is. But so different. Because then, Peter had been calling the shots. Here, now, pinned beneath a lap-full of thick blue muscle and having his cock buried inch by helpless inch in a tight slick cunt, control’s the last thing he has. Yondu’s stolen every last ounce, the greedy fucker.

His spine arches, Peter’s cockhead dragging the length of his frontal wall. While Peter’s overwhelmed at the sensation, the way he’s engulfed and squeezed by trembling, fluttering flesh, he can’t shake the knowledge that this isn’t him taking as he pleases from Yondu. This is Yondu using him.

Why the hell is that so hot?

Peter wheezes louder than a depressurizing lung. Yondu’s laugh has his cunt clenching like an eager throat.

“Please,” Peter garbles, boots scraping the ground in a futile quest for leverage. “Please, please, please…”

Yondu smirks. “You asked for it.”

He flexes up, dragging over Peter’s cock in a smooth, slick slide. Then squelches down again, hard enough to bruise Peter’s pelvis. When all that wrings is a gratified moan he drives harder, faster, spearing himself again and again.

His pussy's wet, hungrily so. It coats Peter's cock in seconds. Thick gel dribbles under Yondu's thighs when he surges up, and his fall sends it squishing out from around his stuffed-tight rim. Hot sparks zing through Peter’s belly. Every muscle strains tighter than taut piano wire. The urge to thrust is all-consuming, but Peter can’t find the strength as he’s ploughed into the hard deck at the nadir of Yondu’s ride. There’s no time. No reprieve. It’s all Peter can do to scrabble above his head for something to hold onto – he latches sweating fingers around the lowest rung of the ladder, and surrenders himself to his captain.

The need for more is inescapable, ineffable, incapable of being constrained to words or cohesive thought. Peter doesn’t voice it – can’t. But Yondu seems to hear him anyway. He unhooks one of the Terran’s hands to guide into the open seam of his pants, letting Peter clumsily fist his navy cock as he pushes down on his chest and aims to sandwich his clit between their groins every time he takes the Terran to the base. Peter fondles Yondu’s dick in uncoordinated jerks. He doesn’t think he makes a very good job of it, but there’s not really such a thing as a bad handjob. And anyway, he figures he can be forgiven – he’s a little distracted, after all.

In the end, it’s not five minutes before his balls squeeze – despite all of Peter's internal pleas to the contrary. He loses himself, erupting messily into Yondu’s core, thrashing and grinding his teeth at his thwarted ability to do anything but lay there and take it. Yondu tuts and snickers, obviously far from a peak of his own. But he bears down in a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, sitting heavy on Peter and holding him deep.

“You better be able to get it up more than once in a sitting, boy,” he tells Peter, slapping him lightly on both cheeks to jolt him out of the satiated haze. It takes Peter a moment to realise he’s still inside him. And to realise that the stickiness he feels is his own jizz, creaming him and Yondu together from within.

And that there’s a fairly vital stage that they’ve forgotten.

“Oh my god! I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry –“

Yondu squirms over him. The join of their bodies is slimed with leaking cum, but Yondu seems in no hurry to extract himself. “’Bout what?”

“I came inside you!”

“Oh. Yeah. Don’t worry – doc’s got me on pills. And m’clean. You think I’d’ve let you if I wasn’t?”

Gradually, Peter relaxes. He stops wringing the rung like he’s trying to juice it. He shakes his head – because honestly, Yondu can handle himself, and Peter’s confident that in this, as in all other things, he knows what he’s doing.

“You… you really ain’t like other Omegas, are you?”

There isn’t so much a change in Yondu’s expression as there is a sudden and artificially careful stillness. Predatory. Like he’s considering his next move. Peter shifts uncomfortably, still pinned under him, a little too nervous to give in to the ball of lust in his abdomen that’s steadily regrowing. Stupid teenage refractory period.

Then Yondu snorts and shakes his head. “Whatever,” he says. He hooks his thumbs under the edge of Peter’s jacket. “Let’s get these off.”

 

* * *

 

 

They rearrange, naked and sticky, seated on the floor with Peter’s back to the ladder. Yondu’s chest to chest with him, stomachs rubbing – and Peter’s seen his pouch before, but it sure feels weird having that line scrub against his sensitive lower belly, along with the ruckle of the gnarled old scar that slits it side-to-side. But he’s hard again, and Yondu has yet to get off, and Peter figures he owes him.

“C’mon,” he says, rubbing apart the engorged petals of his captain’s slit. “Climb on and do what you want with me, already.”

Yondu sniggers. Arranges himself over him, and is sure to worm up an arm behind Peter’s back and scrape half the skin off his shoulderblades as he sinks down.

They go slower this time. Yondu allows Peter to help with the lift and drop. If it weren’t for that, the fuck’d be effortless. Yondu’s full of his jizz, making for a slide both sloppy and carnal, as the noise of skin slapping skin becomes ever-wetter.

“Your species knot?” Yondu asks, jagged teeth cresting the tendon in Peter’s neck. Peter nods, gulping as he hears the hum, Yondu sucking a painful lovebite over his jugular. “Good. I’m gonna cum. You’re gonna cum. And then you’re gonna do it.”

Yondu is, apparently, as talented an oracle as he is a space pirate.

Their orgasms come one after another, like clockwork. Yondu’s only tells are a sudden lowering of his eyelids and a spitty gasp, while Peter snorts air unattractively through his nose and grips his mentor’s waist until he’s certain he’s branded his fingerprints there, clearer than in any Nova record. For the first time, Peter wonders what it must be like to come simultaneously, cunt and cock. He even (just possibly) feels a little jealous.

But Yondu’s not out for the count. While he redoes the scrapes on Peter’s back and bites his shoulder hard enough to draw blood as he spasms around the Terran’s cock and splashes white strings up his torso, the next minute he’s up and hissing in Peter’s ear, demanding that he fill him, knot him, now.

Peter can only oblige.

He hefts Yondu up, not without difficulty. Helps him balance himself with one arm thrown across his captain’s broad blue shoulders, and starts massaging the base of his cock until it puffs angry red. Once the capillaries have opened they’ll keep on swelling on their lonesome. Yondu wrenches Peter’s hand away, impatient as ever, and settles himself onto it, squeezing in fierce little pulses that egg on the bloodflow and have Peter’s toes curling against the rusty iron floor plating.

“Ah –“

“Yeah,” Yondu purrs. “Like that.” His hips keep twitching as the knot grows, like he’s trying to wriggle around, force it deeper. Peter could laugh. Of course, Yondu’s the incarnation of greed in the bedroom as well as everywhere else.

“You really aren’t like other Omegas,” he says again.

For some reason, Yondu doesn’t look flattered. “C’mon, brat. I ain’t nothing special.” At close range his glare’s more blood-curdling than ever – thankfully, all of Peter’s sanguine has evacuated his brain in favor of maintaining his knot. He tries for a laugh.

“That was a compliment, y’know.”

Yondu doesn’t seem amused. “What? That I’m better than the rest, just ‘cause I boss you Alpha a-holes about?” His cunt squeezes dangerously, leaking slick around Peter’s swelling root. His breath reeks sour, chest heaving and sweat collected in the hollow of his neck. But the fingers that wind through Peter’s hair are sure and strong. The sting when they yank is almost as harsh as the rake of cold air over the lines scoured along his spine.

“Ever considered that maybe your rules ain’t as clear as ya think?” Yondu snarls. “Rules is boring. Makes life too easy. Ain’t you learnt that by now, Ravager?”

“Yes,” chokes Peter. “Yes sir.”

“Hmph.” Yondu rocks gently, as if in reward, pussy milking at Peter’s softening cock. Fully inflated, the knot is a clenched lead fist. Yondu’s muscles flutter as he settles onto it. Judging by the sharp pleasured pants and the tug on Peter’s hair, he’s relishing the stretch, the burn. It’s a show of power if there ever was one – and Peter gives way to it. His head lolls back towards the pinch in his scalp, and he bares his throat in pliant submission.

And okay. It’s not an Alpha thing to do. It’s certainly not an Omega thing to do, as Yondu fastens his teeth over the lovebite and snarls into his skin: an act that’d have born the risk of mating if it’d been the other way around. But, Peter realizes, he doesn’t much care.

 

* * *

 

 

Next time they pass that port, the smell of an Omega in heat caresses Peter’s nostrils. He leans into it – then catches himself with a smile, and goes to buy the girl a drink.

“Hey,” he says.

She grunts in acknowledgment.

“So, I was a douche before.”

Another grunt. Slightly more approving.

“And I’ve been, uh. Shown the error of my ways. Thoroughly.”

Peter rubs the stinging bite on his neck, the one which has yet to scab. Yondu’s laughing his ass off, somewhere behind. He _knows_ it.

“Anyway. I was wondering if I could buy you a drink – not as a come-on, y’know. Not unless you want it to be. More… an apology?”

The girl doesn’t look at him. But she sets her boot on the rung of the stool besides her, and scrapes it out an inviting inch.

“Thank you,” Peter says, gratefully sliding in. Crooks his fingers at the bartender, a credit chip pinched between – then turns to face her with a smile. “What d’you want?”

“Swizzler?” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This began life as a one-shot, hence why the first chapter is framed so nicely. It wound up generating a much larger plot, that allows me to explore the world of A/B/O dynamics and try and do this oft-overused fandom trope some plotty justice.**
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> **...But first, the porn.**
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> ****


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm a little stressed at work. You may be able to tell, given that all I've written recently is porn. I think this is the greatest porn-to-plot ratio I've ever coughed up?? I'm so proud of myself.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yet another oneshot that birthed a multichapter. Pray for me.**

Residents of the Silver Spiral galaxy have rather backwards views on the matter, in comparison to the more enlightened Andromedarian star systems. Omegas are even allowed to inherit property on Xandar; how novel! But regardless, no matter where an alien hails from, traditions all return to the same archaic, aboriginal root: one which can be traced as far back in history as there is history to trace.

An Omega submits.

 

* * *

 

If anyone asked – which they don’t – Peter would claim that fucking his captain was a one-time thing.

He’d probably get away with it too. Peter’s a decent liar. Being reared by crooks and criminals will do that for a guy. But there’s one person he’s never been so great at telling falsehoods to, and that’s himself.

Long space flights are an unavoidable part of the Ravager lifestyle. Hence the sticky situation Peter finds himself in: it’s near midnight, they’re practically a parsec from any civilized port, and Peter’s rut has arrived early.

Of course, there are plenty of booze stops scattered throughout Andromeda’s outer rim, where the tracts between stars stretch for unfathomable lightyears and galactic law is a thing of fantasy. But Peter doesn’t fancy indulging himself with any of their patrons. Too many tentacles for one thing, too few eyes for another. Deepspace dwellers tend towards the blind and the fleshy, like fish dredged from an oceanic trench. Who knows if they even adhere to the Dynamic Triumvirate? Peter doesn’t want to find out.

And so he finds himself here: standing over the hatch to the captain’s cabin. Where he’s been for the past five minutes, mustering courage to knock.

There’s other Omegas on board. He’s sure of it. Even if there aren’t, it’s not as if Alpha ruts can only be sated by the fragrant clench of an Omega’s pussy – Peter could find an interested Beta, or even another Alpha to grind against, or just jerk himself off. But his hormones still rage with the unpredictable fury of youth, and right now they’re replaying the scene from his first rut on loop.

Yondu riding him.

Squatting over his cock, thigh muscles quivering under Peter’s hands.

He took him hard and fast, air reverberating with rhythmic grunts and the squelch of Yondu’s slick. Peter’s memories are saturated with his captain’s sour breath, the stench of sex and sweat, the scratch of his stubble as they shared stale kisses, the feel of his compact blue body twitching and clamping around him as he came.

It’s as euphoric as it’s filthy, and Peter wishes he could get it out of his head.

Why can’t he find some nice Omega girl who knows she’s supposed to roll over and present her hole for a fucking, rather than an old blue bastard with broken teeth and deepening laughter lines, who’s the closest thing Peter has to a father?

Peter shudders. What in Nova’s name is he thinking? Best to let that moment of rash idiocy fade into the obscurity of time. His relationship with Yondu is strained as it is: a malevolent mix of nursed grudges and genuine compassion. Last thing they need is to chuck ‘regular sex-buddies’ into that mix.

Shaking his head, Peter steps back a pace, exiting the alcove that casts Yondu’s trapdoor in perpetual dimness. He doesn’t want any passing lower-ranking crew to get the wrong idea. There’s already plenty of speculation about the Ravagers’ youngest member. Peter’s heard more than one jackass pondering aloud where he might fall on the Dynamics.

Given Yondu doesn’t shout about his Omega status – and Peter’s not cruel enough to spill the beans for him – catching him lurking about outside his captain’s cabin with a stiffie the approximate length of a crane-arm isn’t going to help matters. Next thing Peter knows, rumours’ll be flitting from top deck to bottom claiming that he’s the captain’s bitch.

…Although isn’t that kinda what he’d been, regardless of who was inserting what into whom?

Peter’s fists ball in their sleeves – which are finally short enough to not obscure his hands, and getting tight around the biceps. He’s what, twenty now? Tall and starting to fill out. Last time he and Yondu slept together, Peter’s scrawny barely-legal body hadn’t been enough to buck him. But he knows that next time it’ll be different. It’ll be him calling the shots, him winning a snatch of control, him making that wicked blue smirk dissolve into pants and moans…

There’s a creak from below, the sound of an ancient locking system that’s only prevented from rusting shut by near-constant use. The trapdoor swings inwards. Peter thanks the stars he’d had the sense to step away from it, or else he’d have been deposited at the bottom of Yondu’s ladder like a fallen bird in a snake’s burrow.

His captain appears in the dark hole, rubbing bleary red eyes. “Whatchu’ want Quill?” he asks, hoarse with sleep. “Yer makin’ my crest go loopy.” Weird Centaurian empathic shit. Peter doesn’t try to understand it. Judging by the scanty factoids of his personal life that Yondu shares with his men, Yondu doesn’t either.

Peter backs away, shy now he’s been confronted. “Uh, nothin’ –“

“Nothin’ my ass; ya don’t come lurk outside my cabin for nothin’…” Yondu’s voice trails to silence. His nose twitches. Damn. If an Alpha can smell an Omega’s heat, an Omega can smell an Alpha’s. Peter stumbles over his own feet in his eagerness to get downwind.

“Look, just forget it, this was stupid, this was a mistake –“

He makes it five paces along the corridor before he’s halted by a sharp whistle that scatters any eavesdroppers for the adjoining passageways. The arrow jabs at Peter’s nose, encouraging him to revolve. Peter finds Yondu with his elbows hooked over the sides of the hatch, boots still propped on the ladder below. His smirk is saggy and tired.

“Back for more, huh? Thought I was too tough for ya.”

Yondu doesn’t look all that tough at the moment. Judging by his half-lidded eyes he’s still half asleep. But while he might be twenty years Peter’s senior – another detail that’ll weird Peter out if he thinks about it too much – he’s still young enough to react and reciprocate. His body exudes a waft of sweet pheromones at a distinct counterpoint to Peter’s musk.

Peter’s cock gives another demanding throb. He feels like it’s dragging him towards Yondu, two magnets drawn together by their opposing poles. “This time I’m in charge,” he says, trying to make it sound assertive. Yondu just snorts and rolls his eyes. He drops into the ladder chute, engulfed by shadow – but when Peter tentatively picks his way over, he can make out Yondu’s ruby-red eyes glowing in the gloom.

“You wish, brat,” comes the surly reply. “Now, seein’ as ya got my pussy all wet, how’s about ya come down here and sort it out?”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter can’t find the light switch amid the clutter of Yondu’s room, and Yondu finds more amusement in watching him trip, stub toes and bash shins than he would from guiding him. Eventually Peter gives in. The dim crimson phosphorescence from Yondu’s crest is the only light source in a room as black as a miner’s pit. It bobbles around like a jellyfish as he chuckles over Peter’s latest heartfelt yelp and curse – he’d trod on what was either a belt buckle or a dropped trinket.

“Fuck,” hisses Peter, hopping on his least sore foot. “You ever clean this place? It smells like old gym socks.”

“Ya don’t like it, you can leave.” Yondu kicks his coat aside in a rustle of old crackly leather. Getting a Ravager captain to hang up his clothes is like getting a fish to breastfeed.

There follows temptingly wet squish as Yondu tests the space between his legs, and finds his secondary sex organs fully formed and functioning. When Peter reaches out, guided by that light like a ship to a beacon, his fingers meet the worn wool of Yondu’s sleeping shirt. Yondu grabs his hand. He forces it down until Peter grazes skin.

The captain’s already tugged his boxers to his ankles. His crotch is smooth as a snake’s. Peter flinches, torn between eagerness and a desire to slow down and assert some authority, as Yondu arranges his fingers into a double-spear of index and middle. He guides them under his balls, grazing the dangling sack – Peter shudders, because while he ain’t exactly _averse_ to males, he doesn’t appreciate the reminder.

But then damp petals brush his fingertips. Peter’s apprehension floats away.

At this distance, he can make out the lines of Yondu’s body: the draping folds of his shirt that dangle from thick muscle. The air swelters between them, oppressively humid. It’s warm and wet as a rainforest and thick with heady pheromones. Sweat beads on Peter’s skin before he pushes his digits inside.

He hesitates about that though, despite Yondu’s wordless assurances – the eager spread of his legs, the lips grazing his neck, the warm puff of air over his earlobe and the accompanying aroma of fertile Omega.

Instead, he traces the outline of Yondu’s cunt. It’s small and neat. That’s about all he can tell. He didn’t waste time staring when they were last in this position, and now it’s too dark for a proper ogle.

A hard nub perches atop the slit, and when Peter tweaks it Yondu’s knees go weak. He leans forwards, onto Peter’s chest, sandwiching their erections between them. The angle’s uncomfortable for Peter’s wrist; he rearranges so he can probe Yondu from behind, reaching over his back and between the meaty cheeks of his ass. He rubs the creased pucker, wondering if Yondu’ll ever consent to letting him fuck him there too. But before he can contemplate further, his captain loses patience.

Crooked teeth gnash on his collarbone. Yondu holds Peter’s arm still while he thrusts backwards, wriggling his hips so Peter’s fingers slip over the tiny perineum and bury knuckle-deep in squelching blue.

“There,” he growls. Peter manages to swallow the whimper as jagged fangs move to worry his neck. “Ain’t so hard. Now fuck me already. If yer only here to play cavity-search, I’mma boot’chu out an’ call Kraglin.”

“You want my knot?” asks Peter, in what he’s been reliably informed is his ‘sexy’ voice. From the dimmed luminescence, Yondu’s thinning his eyes at him.

“Course I do, idiot. S’all you Alpha fucks are good for. Now c’mon; let’s get the nookie-nookie started before I dry up again.”

Well, when he puts it like that…

“You don’t really do dirty-talk, do you?” Peter walks Yondu backwards, still impaled on his fingers. Despite Yondu’s less-than-stellar bedroom temperament, he relishes the way his hips swivel in an effort to contract them deeper, fill himself further.

Somehow they make it to the bed without further incident. Peter extracts himself only for as long as it takes to shove Yondu back into the wide nest. Yondu bounces, legs wide, boxers abandoned somewhere amid the crud that turns his room into an assault course.

“I’m dirty. I talk.”

“Yeah, don’t think anyone’d deny that.”

Yondu smacks him. Peter smears his sticky fingers down his face in retaliation, the silvery slick webbing them in the muted red light. Yondu pulls a face. “Gross.”

“You’re the one it came out of.”

“Yeah well. It’s sticky an’ it smells weird.” It smells fucking amazing: the saccharine pungency of an aroused Omega, blended with the tart bitterness of Yondu’s skin, breath, sweat and leathers. Peter wants to devour it. Tentatively, he gives his hand a lick. The taste isn’t all that special – paradoxically bland and salty at the same time. But the saturation of pheromones through his tastebuds hits Peter harder than a line of cocaine.

“Damn, captain,” he growls. He jams those two fingers into him again, squirming them into Yondu’s body until the skin around his knuckles pinches soft labia. Yondu pushes up into a bridge. There’s not enough light for Peter to watch his toes curl as he thumbs small circles around his clit and scratches at his frontal wall, but he hears them stir the tatty rags of his nest.

Yeah, in his head Yondu’s _drooling_ for it. Just like an Omega should be.

Unfortunately, what’s in his head doesn’t coincide with reality. “C’mon already,” Yondu gasps, halting Quill’s sticky fingers with a grab at his wrist. “Either fuck me or fuck off so I can sleep. Don’t got all night, and I’m on Bridge duty in the mornin’.”

“You’re captain. Can’t you assign yourself better hours?”

“Yeah. I can assign ‘em to you, if ya don’t hurry this up.” Yondu hooks his heels over Peter’s back, drawing him closer. “You need me to show ya how it’s done again? Ride ya so hard you see stars for a week?”

What a gross exaggeration. Peter’d only seen stars for an hour. Maybe a day. Three at most.

“No,” he says, hoping it sounds less strangled to Yondu’s ears than his own.

Those heels guide him in. Yondu reaches between them to snatch a hot handful of Alpha-cock and guide it to his entrance. He finds it, after some trial and error. Peter can’t blame him, given how dark it is; but there’s really no need for Yondu to laugh _quite_ that loud when he pinches Peter’s balls by mistake.

“There,” he purrs, canting his hips so the wrinkled folds part. His slick mingles with Peter’s precum; Peter has to grit his teeth to stop himself fucking on in before Yondu gives the word. He is supposed to treat Omegas with more respect now after all. Permission, when it comes, is hardly relieving however. Smirking up at him, Yondu stretches back like a lazy cat and bucks so the head and first inch of Peter’s prick scooches inside.

“I’m thinkin’ ya can handle the rest of the procedure yerself? Or do ya need it step-by-step?”

Still treating him like some new-rut brat. Peter wants to punch him almost as much as he wants to fuck him – but the throbbing in his cock takes precedence. Needs must. He’ll beat Yondu to a pulp in the training ring next time the captain swaggers in and opens a bout; until then, Peter will satisfy himself with fucking him so well that Yondu forgets how much he likes to be in charge.

So he tells himself.

Not a minute in, and Yondu’s jaw cracks around a yawn he can’t quite disguise. He drops his hand over his eyes to none-too-subtly squint at his chronometer. Peter clears his throat. “I can see the number display, Yondu.”

“Then ya can see that it’s four hours til’ I gotta be on Bridge shoutin’ orders. Hurry it up.”

Rather than obeying, Peter’s pistoning hips squelch to a gradual stop. “Y’know,” he huffs, ignoring Yondu when he batters his heels off his kidneys in an attempt to keep him moving. “If you were just going to complain, you should never have answered the door.”

“Y’know,” Yondu mimics, pitching his voice at a tone far more whiney than is strictly necessary, “if ya were just gonna give me some mediocre dicking, ya should’ve been born a Beta – oh, hey. Hey, thas more like it. Fuck yeah boy, give it to me, want it hard, don’t need no coddlin’…”

Peter lets the husky jabber float into an indistinct stew. Imperatives meld into staccato exclamations whenever Peter angles his thrusts up against Yondu’s rough frontal wall, then drawn out cusses when he pummels him hard and deep. Yondu has to shift back into his wide-legged bridge to give Peter more leeway to thrust, twisting his head to one side as he grasps at the flaky cushions.

This is easier, when they don’t have to look at each other. Peter doesn’t have to be reminded of his partner’s gender, age, general ugliness, or all those annoying idiosyncrasies that turn his and Yondu’s relationship into a volatile concoction, to which sex might as well be a lit match tossed into a petrol can.

No, like this, with shadows smoothing the multiple imperfections that make Yondu an unsatisfactory mate – from his scarred old hide to the blueness of his skin – Peter can shut his eyes and focus on _sensation_.

He nears his peak fast, all things considered. But this ain’t a lasting match, not like last time – that competition which Peter lost, as he attempted to assert superiority over a far more experienced opponent. This time Peter’s using Yondu as much as Yondu’s using him. Heck, if it wasn’t for the constant grate of that voice on his eardrums he could imagine a different face attached to the warm Omega-hole he’s ravaging.

Unfortunately though, even without visuals Yondu’s inescapable. Peter tunes in to a grouchy “You even listenin’ to me boy?”

As he’s nearing climax he feels justified in concentrating on other things: such as the shallow, fast jerks of his pelvis, cock plunging and popping in and out of Yondu’s tight cunt; or the pass of his fist across the base of his cock, until the loose skin there swells up like a giant puffball.

“Boy? You listenin’? No. Okay. Well, don’t say I didn’t give ya no warnin’…”

Yondu drops suddenly, falling off with a noisy suck. He rolls sideways before Peter can catch him or do anything more than yelp in confusion. Then knees him sharply in the chest, knocking him flat on his back.

“Idiot,” he grunts as he squats over him, peering into the gloom between his legs in the hope that light from his implant will elucidate the placement of Peter’s cock. Given that cock has swollen larger than ever, the endeavour is successful.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Peter chants, as Yondu lowers himself. His silky channel contracts and squeezes, rippling spasms that herald an orgasm. He sinks into oil-wet velvet, that tightens as it struggles to take his engorging knot.

“Boy, boy, gonna need yer help…”

His hand’s stolen from where it’s flopped feebly on Peter’s chest. He finds himself with fingers propped on either side of Yondu’s mound, hidden as it is beneath his weighty balls. But Peter can’t even bring himself to care about _that_ aspect of Yondu’s anatomy – or the firm blue prick bouncing against the alien’s belly. Because next moment, Yondu grinds _down_ when Peter pulls _apart_ , and his puss slips over and around his knot, burying him entirely in his captain’s compact body.

“Cum,” Yondu says, breathy and greedy in equal measure. Then, when that goes no reaction but whimpers, he smacks Peter’s cheek hard enough to smack his face sideways onto the nest rags. “Cum, boy!” This time, the orders more forceful. “Cum inside me. Now!”

That right there’s his captain voice, not his Yondu one. A voice no one lives to disobey.

Peter proves himself a loyal crewmember. He bursts against the tight-clamped pucker of Yondu’s cervix, stuffing him with cream.

Yondu groans as it rebounds off the top of his cunt and drizzles back down, trickling along the length of Peter’s prick to gather in a sticky pool atop his knot.

The boneless bliss ebbs all too rapidly.

“Damn, boy,” Yondu croaks. The wetness on Peter’s chest indicates he’s more than happy with his performance – but Peter still accrues another slap to the head, as Yondu wriggles about on his knot like a king on his throne. “Ya really need more practice. Idiot – yer still just a kid. Should find someone yer own age to fuck –“

Does he think Peter ain’t telling himself that? “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, turning away when Yondu leans in to bestow another smelly kiss. “You’re just the easiest Omega on board.”

That kiss doesn’t impact with Peter’s stubbled jaw, as he’d been expecting, or even glance off at an angle to impact sloppily on his nose. Peter, perturbed at this unpredicted turn of events, twists his neck back around – and comes face to face with Yondu. The captain’s so close that Peter can make out the microscopic traceries of scales on his face, clustering over the tip of his nose where Terrans have visible pores. “What?” he asks, straining away. His escape’s hindered both by his prone position, and the fact that his knot is still bulging out the lips of that tight blue cunt.

“Ya say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Peter wriggles, suddenly uncertain. “I… I guess? I mean, it isn’t like anyone’d want to mate an Omega that sleeps around…”

“An’ why the fuck’d I want anyone to _mate_ me?” Yondu’s red glare glimmers spookily, face eclipsed by shadows as he straightens his spine, revoking all contact besides the warm compress of his thighs, sandwiched tight to Peter’s hips. “All you Alphas’re good for is providin’ dicks for me to ride. Don’t want none of you _exclusively_. I’d be bored within the week.”

Peter doesn’t doubt it. But there’s no fun in arguing when you’re attached to someone by the groin for the next half hour at least. Sighing, Peter falls back, letting his over tensed abdomen relax. “C’mon,” he says, patting his chest. “Go to sleep. My knot's gonna deflate before your morning shift.”

Yondu reclines as directed, the contractions caused by his movements making Peter’s buried prick sing. Eventually they’re arranged. Yondu spreads over Peter, a floppy blue deadweight that’s far too heavy and warm to be comfortable. Sweat prickles, and Peter knows he’ll be bright pink like he’s running a fever by morning. But for now, his captain’s not complaining.

He turns away, so Peter doesn’t have to look at him or dread being woken up by his halitosis. His pussy’s soft and yielding, the smell of sex lulls Peter to sleep better than any lullaby. When Peter tentatively rests his hands on Yondu’s broad back, questing out the scars it’s too dark for him to see, Yondu doesn’t shrug him off. Just mumbles something inarticulate and half-clicked in a language Peter doesn’t know, and liquefies over him like a cat in sunlight.

“You better not snore,” Peter remembers to say before he drops into dreamless, sated oblivion. Yondu’s fingers curl tiredly in his gingery chest hair.

“Same goes for you, brat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter wakes alone. Yondu’s cabin is still swamped in darkness.

It takes Peter a minute to convince himself he hasn’t gone blind, a further minute to stagger upright and recall where he is just in time to stop himself tripping over the elevated nest side, and then five more of picking his delicate way over the hazardous floor, running his hands across the walls for the light panel.

The _Eclector_ hasn’t lazed about in orbit in a while. Yondu’s restless energy drags him – and thus, his crew – towards the thrill and adrenaline of the hunt, rather than the higher-paying, higher-security contract jobs they undertake whenever they breach civilized airspace. ‘Day’ and ‘night’ are arbitrary when you’re trawling the starways for prey, so every man lucky enough to nab a solo cabin gets to adjust his light settings personally.

But with the ship prowling through the chasmic vortex, steering clear of populated star-systems where possible to avoid alarum being raised, they’ve been on low-power for the past couple of weeks. Yondu’s usual preference for a mid-to-dim ambience has been pushed to the backburner. Peter, whose feeble Terran eyes are better accustomed to stark lighting, will have to make the necessary modifications manually.

When the lamps clunk to life it’s with a groan and a whirr, like steam-powered mechanisms in a Victorian train. Of course, the _Eclector_ is far beyond any such primitive engine. She flies through a blend of solar-power and nuclear fusion, her engine core a vast pulsating hub.

But while the generators can casually toss out as much horsepower as is required to puncture an atmosphere, the circuitry embedded in the ship’s body is somewhat more doddery, and needs to be babied and coaxed on occasion.

Peter doesn’t have the patience. When the lights take more than five seconds to resuscitate, he boots the wall. This helps little, but it sure as hell feels good.

Peter, yawning and gritty-eyed, sways from foot-to-foot. He waits until the ancient solar-panels rusted into Yondu’s ceiling set up their full-beamed hum, the vibrating light-cylinders creating a pleasant background monotone. Then pads to Yondu’s mirror to assess the damage.

Lovebites.

They don’t really deserve to be called that where Yondu’s involved: far too much of the ‘bite’ and not nearly enough of the ‘love’.

They wind around his throat like strangling vines. He touches them, wincing. Yondu’d left his mark last time too. Peter recalls their heated conversation on the topic of mating, and wonders if this is another of Yondu’s stupid Omega-power things: he bites him like an Alpha to disguise his own impotence. Because, as everyone knows, an Omega can’t initiate the bond. That’s just one of the many biological imperatives that denote them as _lesser_ , in the eyes of the wider galaxy.

Peter believes that Omegas are capable of achieving what they want. Of course he does; Yondu’s more than drummed that into his skull. But he still can’t help but view the majority in a coddling and vaguely condescending manner.

Omegas only rise through the strata of space-outlaw life if they contort themselves into something hypermasculinized and fearsome. Yondu only acts like he does out of some deep-ingrained need to prove himself. If he were relaxed, with someone he truly cared about – someone like a mate – that urge to dominate would diminish into natural passivity.

Yeah, Peter thinks, rubbing his tired gritty eyes. It’s a good thing this is the last time he plans on fucking his boss – otherwise he’d feel duty-bound to show him that submitting can be pleasurable too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you've made it this far, do comment. It's only fair. x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Last chapter of pure sex. Some plot creeps in after this, so make the most of the PWP while it lasts! ;)**

Since Peter’s up, he figures he might as well meander to the Bridge and log his hours for the day. Because he wants time off to laze about this evening, obviously. Not because he’s regretting last night, and fretting that this redo of their one-time misadventure might irrevocably change his and Yondu's relationship.

Ravagers are allotted work and night shifts, but the higher you rank, the more flexible this timetable becomes. Peter, fortunate enough to never have suffered the usual fifty-hour fixed-rate Rookie week, has always been afforded more leniency than most. Peter likes to think this is due to his winning personality. In actuality it’s down to the fact that he was, until a year ago, demarcated in the quartermaster’s record books not by the job title ‘junior gunner’ or ‘ace pilot’, but ‘team mascot’.

The writing, when he went to demand it be altered, looked suspiciously like Yondu’s.

When he arrives Yondu’s busy telling off Isla for almost piloting them into a star. Isla’s fighting to look meek and apologetic rather than hungover, and Kraglin’s taking up her slack with a vein bulging out his temple, which pulses whenever Yondu’s volume cranks up a notch.

Peter hurries to relieve him. Can’t have the first mate popping an aneurysm mid-deck. Yondu might promote _Peter_ next. While Peter’s always nosying for more independence, having Kraglin’s job (which basically amounts to following his captain about and managing everything he forgets/ignores/can’t be bothered to deal with) sounds less like an upgrade and more like a ticket to his own special ring of hell.

He and Yondu scarcely see eye-to-eye, even when they’re in the sack. Another fine reason not to pursue this course further.

Kraglin and Isla had been present the first time Yondu propositioned him. But a lot of the Bridge crew – young, _impressionable_ Bridge crew (or so Peter thinks with the self-assured superiority of one who’s been a Ravager more than half his life) – hadn’t. Peter’d rather keep it that way. So he’s grateful when, rather than slapping his ass or winking, Yondu snaps at him as he passes: “You gonna take a station or stand about looking stupid, boy?”

Perfect. Nothing’s changed. Peter releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and submerges himself in the rigmarole of daily routine.

 

* * *

 

 

But time moves on. And things escalate, as they always do.

By the time he hits twenty-two, not four years after the incident with Swizzler-Girl (Veera, her name was _Veera_ ) Peter’s fucked Yondu at least once per rut. Sometimes it’s frenzied. Sometimes it’s frustrated.

Sometimes Yondu barks hoarsely for the Bridge to clear so he can shove Peter on his chair and ride him furiously but unsatisfyingly, seeking his own pleasure until Peter sobs at the overstimulation and begs to be granted release.

Other times Peter pins his captain to a wall, grinding his knot on his ass. He teases open the zippers once he’s got Yondu good and wet, and the captain fucks back onto his cock the moment his leathers are out the way, spitting cusses and growled orders for more.

Peter’s young, still grinding through the peak of his rut cycle – and what an apt term _peak_ is, because each of Peter’s feels like he’s climbed Everest and grabbed a handful of heaven. Peter would worry about Yondu getting worn out. Or worse: bored. But while there’s complaining, scratching, and biting aplenty, Peter knows Yondu doesn’t mind being used. And – a fact Peter’s still struggling to come to grips with – the same goes vice versa.

Because yeah, he’s an Alpha. Yeah, Yondu’s an Omega. Yeah, there’s an established order to these things, which has low-key saturated Peter’s assumptions and expectations since birth. But like Yondu says: rules are dull. Why follow ‘em when you can live by your own?

In fact, the only surefire rule that governs Peter’s life is that of biology. Once a season, every season – or thereabouts – his cock grows an inch while flaccid and several more while erect, and his knot starts bulging if his thighs so much as graze his dick when he walks. Omegas are the rarest category within the dynamic triumvirate. That, coupled with the fact that there’s few aboard who aren’t dosed up on heat-blockers or scent suppressants, and even fewer who’d deign to let the youngest Ravager anywhere near their cunts, means Peter’s not spoilt for choice. And thus, every time he feels that vicious curl of fire in his gut, the air around him charged like it foretells a thunderstorm, his first port of call is a whorehouse. His second is random Omegas and Betas he can pick up from bars and never meet again. And his third is Yondu.

Given Peter’s luck with the ladies has yet to improve, that means a lot of sex. Heck, if Yondu still had regular heats, they’d probably never leave his cabin. However, that Peter’s the needy one is to be expected. There’s a significant age difference, after all.

Like all Omegas, Yondu responds to a hearty dose of pheromones. The pulse hammering in Peter’s fat Alpha-cock never fails to trigger reciprocation: Yondu arching on automatic, fighting the urge to present his throat, growling and snarling and asserting his dominance even as his cunt ripples around three of Peter’s fingers and the thick, heady scent of slick turns the sweaty atmosphere into something more incense-filled and sweet, better suited to a bordello than a Ravager captain’s cabin.

Said cunt is where the problems start.

Yondu swears it doesn’t hurt when it forms. But he’s been lying for a living since before Peter’s conception. Peter doesn’t take his word on it. He can’t imagine it’s pleasant, having a hole bore its way through your groin to connect the outside of your body to your interior reproductive system every time you smell an Alpha in rut. There’s little wonder why the majority of Omegas take drugs to dampen this automatic response. As a Ravager Admiral who can’t take a day off whenever his cunt decides to misbehave, Peter’s amazed Yondu doesn’t do the same.

However Yondu, discovering this chasm in Peter’s knowledge, sees it as the perfect opportunity to embarrass him. All in the name of learning, of course – although Peter’d like to see where in the Space Pirate Manifesto it demands that all Ravagers must be thoroughly _au fait_ with a male Omega’s secondary sexual traits. Regardless, what the captain says goes.

And so here they are. Yondu perched on the edge of his nest, butt-naked, legs kicked wide. Cheerfully pointing to bits of his anatomy as they evolve, while Peter struggles between faking attentiveness and lunging for the closest puke-receptacle.

It’s weird. It’s _so-fucking-weird_.

Blue fingers trace a hairless slit. A slit that deepens as he watches, allowing Yondu to sink his digits in to the first knuckle, then the second, then seat them fully…

Yondu, steering his half-hard dick to one side so Peter can watch unobstructed, notes that his expression falls several marks short of rapturous lust. Realizing he’s studying the developing pussy with borderline nausea, Peter hurries to amend himself – but it’s too late. Yondu’s face shutters into a scowl. “What.”

That’s a look Peter’s accustomed to – red eyes threaded with bloodshot-blue, crows’ feet creasing their corners, and wrinkles dimpling around the downturned mouth. A captain-glare through and through: grumpy and impatient and defensive.

It usually manifests on the Bridge, after Peter bungles the nav controls (and Yondu stomps over and corrects them for the hundredth odd time). Not _Peter_ ’s fault he ain’t a natural chart-plotter. If only the captain would let him nurture his innate talents rather than insisting he struggle his way to competence in a dozen other fields, and let Peter fly his _Milano_ in peace…

Work-talk has no place in the bedroom. Peter dismisses his thoughts, not without difficulty. It’s more pleasant to focus on them than what’s going on between Yondu’s legs – which bodes poorly for the rest of the night.

Peter nods to it, forcing a smile. “S’weird, that’s all. Doesn’t it hurt?”

Those fingers are tugged out with a wet pop that Peter’d find amusing under different circumstances. “Weird? Gee thanks. Most Alphas find it sexy.”

“Well, y’know. It’s cute when it’s already there, I guess…” Peter tentatively reaches forwards, expecting to be smacked at any moment. He cups the mound under Yondu’s drawn-up balls, finding it soft and warm as ever. Slick lips mush against his palm. His pulse raises, but Peter still shudders when he feels the bump of the clit forming under his loveline, peeking out from beneath its hood like a tender blue button. “Watching it grow’s mighty creepy though.”

“Why?” Up close, Yondu’s leer is a thousand times uglier. “Afraid ya might be jealous? Want a pretty lil’ boy-pussy of yer own?”

A little. Double-orgasms look spectacular. Like hell is Peter admitting that though. Sneering, he wipes his hands on his pants and steps back.

Peter waits until Yondu’s fingerfucked himself open far enough to take an Alpha’s cock. Steadying himself with his hands on the nest’s broad rim, Yondu parts his legs and nods at him to approach between them, as a king to his subject. Peter rolls his eyes, but obeys. Then, once he’s fully seated in that sopping velvet hole, kneeling on the floor with his captain’s legs on his shoulders to frame his blushing face, he presses a hand on Yondu’s stomach to gauge the tension inside.

It’s not a good angle to feel himself through the skin of Yondu’s pouch. Arranged like this, Yondu’s crunched forwards to avoid tipping rearwards into his rumpled nest. His stomach’s somewhat more padded than Peter’s own – who’s still slim as a teenager, and looking forwards to the day his metabolism starts letting him put on muscle. Yondu sniggers as Peter palms his belly. His toes flex by Peter’s ears, smelling as ripe as the rest of him. The messy kiss he plants on Peter’s mouth tastes of sour spit and metal. “Ready boy?” he murmurs.

“Ready? For wha – oh! Hey, woah! Oh…”

Yondu grabs his hands. He releases the nest, forcing Peter to grip his sides. There’s no time to protest; Yondu moves faster and more fluid than he ever does outside of a battlefield. He leans back, back, _back_ : trusting that Peter won’t let him fall while his cock’s still wedged far within.

Peter’s biceps bulge. “Fuck!” he pants. The blue bastard rocks his implant over the tatty sheets. He has the audacity to grin at him. But before Peter can be pissed that Yondu’s gamble might’ve resulted in the snapping of his favourite appendage, which is still very firmly lodged in that thick blue body, Yondu props his shoulders and elbows against the bed.

His impaled pelvis bumps Peter’s. Supporting himself on the incline, he nods Peter’s now free hands to his stomach. The skin is stretched taut, abdominals more defined than usual. His pouch carves between his pectorals, an elastic lip of flesh that’s gotten Peter punches whenever he tries to involve it in their sex games. And there…

There, bulging at the front of Yondu’s stomach, is a lump.

Peter’s eyes flutter shut. He moans. His fingers scrape on Yondu’s lizard-like hide as they trace the outline of his cockhead through the thin-stretched layer of muscle and fat. He can feel it – the ghost of pressure from above, alongside the rapturous squeeze of an Omega’s channel around him. In that moment, things are very almost perfect.

Then Yondu has to open his mouth.

"Fuck, you gonna move or what boy? If ya don’t do _somethin’_ in the next five seconds, I’mma call Isla an’ Kraglin in to show ya how it’s done.”

That's an old favorite among Yondu's many threats, and it never fails to get Peter revving. Wriggling about on his elbows, Yondu splays his legs wide and shows off his blunt navy cock. It bounces over his belly. At this angle, when he comes it’ll smack him straight in the face – which in Peter’s opinion is exactly what the jackass deserves.

“Thassit boy,” he croons, when Peter plows in a few sharp thrusts, mostly to shut him up. It’s hard at this angle. His range of motion is limited by the edge of the bed, which props Yondu’s hips at a fuckable level. “C’mon, c’mon. Pick up the pace a lil. Wanna get off sometime this century. Jus’ don’t blow yer wad early again –“

“You ever gonna let me live that down?” The answering cackle’s somewhere between filthy and gleeful, air forced out Yondu’s nose whenever Peter pistons him full. Peter takes that as a no. “What do I care what you think,” he mutters, digging the heel of his hand into Yondu’s stomach to meet the stab of his dick through the flesh. “You’re just an Omega. You’d still be gagging for my meat if I came before I put it in –“

It’s just dirty-talk. The sorta crap Yondu spews at him incessantly and unapologetically throughout most of their lil’ shindigs. Which is why, in Peter’s opinion, it’s so totally unfair that Yondu doesn’t do as Peter does, and lay there and take it.

Y’see, fucking Yondu is kinda like sticking your cock in a fire ant nest. Dangerous, stupid, unhygienic, and liable to leave bite marks in painful places. Means Peter’s gotta be extra-careful. No degrading jokes about Omegas once Yondu’s climbed on. Else he’ll slide off his cock, like he’s doing now.

Then he’ll tie Peter to the ladder under the trapdoor.

Ignoring that the Terran’s balls are swiftly changing colour to match his own cerulean face, he’ll straddle his chair and work through the requisite orgasm on his lonesome, showing Peter just how much metal his shit-eating grin is composed of.

When he finishes, he does so with a self-satisfied grunt that Peter yearns to punch off his face. And slumps there, languid, casual and open-legged, so Peter can watch the little pussy nestled at the crux of his thighs, meld back into smooth blue perineum.

Dammit.

After that, it doesn’t matter how often Peter begs to be let off. He’s left on his own for however long it takes Yondu to finish his work for the day. He’s unable to reach his prick, muscles straining, rutting helplessly on thin air. When Yondu swaggers back in he gives him a quick jerk, face turned to one side and grimacing in an effort not to inhale too many Alpha pheromones.

The stench of Peter’s need gets too much for him to handle. Peter knows this because Yondu’s rubbing himself too, over his clothes, squeezing his leatherclad cock and dipping beneath to probe and poke.

Next moment the knots droop slack. Yondu ducks away from the first wild swing, and Peter’s too incapacitated by the amount of bloodflow being diverted to his groin to try for a second. He tosses Peter’s pants at his head, flips him a bright blue bird, and orders him to fuck off and sort himself out.

That’s the worst. Nothing says _humiliation_ clearer than this: kicked out of your captain’s cabin, stumbling and bleary-eyed, rope marks crisscrossing your bare torso and erection trapped inside your pantleg.

Especially for an Alpha.

And to make it worse, as Peter stalks the corridors fuming, struggling headfirst into his shirt, he hears not one but _several_ rookies extrapolating on his status.

“I put money on Omega,” one rumbles. Peter doesn’t like the way he looks at him; he shoots him the finger as he passes. Another Ravager smacks the first speaker. But his hiss isn’t any more reassuring –

“Eyes off that one! If the captain’s fuckin’ ‘im, ya don’t wanna touch!”

Damn right they don’t. Because Peter’s gait is encumbered not by the rigorous fucking they assume he’s just been through, but the mammoth stiffie which must by now be stretching the front of his pants.

Peter risks a glance down. Nope – tight leather has worked its wonders again. Truly miraculous stuff. You can hardly tell that blood is stuffing his cock like a Christmas turkey.

For a moment, Peter’s almost disappointed. Sure, he could rip down his fly and present his knot-sporting, red-throbbing prick to all who insult him by calling him _Omega_. But that lacks class. And considering himself a grown-up, Peter strives to embody suave classiness every time he reaches a confluence along the river of life.

Unfortunately, that includes not hollering the truth into the Eclector’s echo-chamber of tunnels, crawlspaces, and gossipmongers:  _It’s your captain who’s the Omega, idiots, not me. And I knot him like a goddam bitch on a semi-regular basis._

It’s tempting though. Peter can’t deny that.

He holds his head high – or as high as it can get before he goes woozy from the low blood pressure. Yes, he could tell them. Yondu’s never forbidden it. And even if he had, well, fuck him. Guy’s a jackass. If Peter were in his right mind, he’d never let him near his cock again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **God fucking damn Omega-Yondu is my jam.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Peter starts sorting things out in his head. Yondu assists.**

Their stint in the open stars crawls to an end. The thrill of the hunt wears thin; the Ravager lowlifes champ and strain at their muzzles like rabid dogs deprived of meat.

Peter too is eager for a change – though not for the same reasons.

Yeah, piracy is exciting. Exhilaration ignites in Peter like engine fuel poured onto a bonfire whenever their M-ships lock-on to prey. This prey comes in many shapes and sizes: trawler craft, smuggling ships, Nova schooners far off course. The conquests blur in Peter’s mind however, blending together in a synesthetic blaze of _action_.

Laser cannons thud around them. Their glares leave lines on Peter’s vision, as the shuttle’s magnetic clamps smack to the enemy’s keel, locking tight as a barnacle. The reverberation is felt more than heard. Space’s eerie silence compounds every other one of Peter’s senses in on themselves until he’s drowning in a vast ocean of tart sweat and adrenaline, gun grease and leather, and the fast-paced pound of his heart.

Yondu’s first to holler the charge. He’s besides Peter as he always is – or rather, Peter’s besides him. At this proximity his words are scarcely discernible. But that doesn’t matter. Ravagers don’t care for _vocabulistics_. They feast on the high glee in Yondu’s tone as he bellows them forwards in a surging tsunami of mangy feral grins, gleaming knives, and grubby leathers.

Peter’s right there along with them, Yondu elbowing for space at his side. But for some reason, he feels like he’s left himself far behind.

Today’s victim is a small-scale frigate. Its crew put up a valiant resistance, considering relative size and bloodthirstiness, but after the swarm breached their hold, any gleam of hope for them had vanished. Fully aware of this, Peter opts to let the majority of the Ravagers flock past him, smacking backs and cheering them on. He ain’t no coward. He doesn’t avoid the frontlines because of the danger. Oh no; Peter’s as wily-bordering-suicidal as the rest of them. But he knows what happens next. And slaughtering merchants who’ve never done them harm nor insult? That’s not his flask of grog, so to speak.

Yondu’d signed their death warrants as soon as they logged on radar. “No survivors,” had come the decree, before Kraglin pulled the ship’s specs so the Bridge crew could peruse the roster and highlight any who might be worth ransoming. Some of these Empire trading families had velvet-lined pockets after all, and it never hurt to make an extra mint on a job.

But rather than protesting, as Peter had hoped he would, Kraglin gouged his hand through the centre of the crystalline holographic display, shredding it to ribbons before the names became legible.

“Right you are sir,” he’d said, grin wolfish. He was hungry for blood too.

Peter can hear them ahead. Yondu’s passage is marked by sharp whistles and screams, none his own. Kraglin laughs like a madman, capering about the cramped corridor battleground and ramming his knives into any jugulars he finds.

Peter wishes them luck, and hopes they have fun. But he doesn’t want to join in. Give him a simple thievery mission any day over this: the frigate’s gleaming white walls now dank and crusty with blood, the Ravagers a seething mass who bubble around the corner like a fluid and many-mouthed nightmare.

Ravager bread is money. They siphon from the accounts of wealthy business owners, steal jewels from the hairpieces of small-satellite sovereigns, liberate unit-chits in their thousands from so-called ‘impenetrable’ Xandarian vaults. Their circus, on the other hand, is the battlefield.

However it’s a prerequisite of even the greatest circuses, that at some hour of the night they must end. This spree halts with a holocall.

“You,” says Yondu, looming over Peter a week later and slamming his hands on the breakfast table, “have got yerself a job.”

“I’m your first choice?” That’s rare; fuckbuddies they might be, but Quill’s still flying strictly in formation. Stupid Yondu and his stupid rules about _maturity meaning more than age_.

Yondu shifts one shoulder higher than the other. “Krags has other shit. An’ he’s supposed to be in the medbay!” This last is declared at an elevated volume. Kraglin, lounging across the captain’s chair, jumps upright on instinct – and keels over at the protest from his broken ribs.

“Ass,” he wheezes. Yondu shoots him a fond middle finger.

“Go on, git. Dead first mate ain’t no use to nobody.”

Peter observes the interchange, wondering if he ought to feel jealousy rather than relief. There’s a certain camaraderie Kraglin shares with his captain that Peter knows he’ll never access. Kraglin’s simply known him longer. Unless he disobeys Yondu’s orders and winds up asphyxiating in the night when a rib punctures his lung, that ain’t gonna change – and Peter’s cool with that. Happy, even. It lessens the import of what he and Yondu do behind closed doors, knowing they’re not exclusive.

The wreckage floats far behind. It’s a silent abattoir, airless and lightless. Everything of value has been stripped, from the crew’s organs, now suspended in preservative gel for transport to the black market, to hull plates that weigh in for scrap. The frigate’s a skeleton. Fuel drained, engine components disengaged, fuel rods ejected into space. These crusted rapidly with frost, brittle enough to shatter on impact with the M-ships – which clotted the skies as they vacated the ravaged ship, like flies from a corpse.

Remembering the receding spacecraft, debris spooling slowly from its gutted flanks towards the nearest quasar, makes Peter’s guts clench. “I’m in,” he tells Yondu, and manages to meet the cheerful pound on his back with a weak smile.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes him under a minute to regret agreeing on impulse. What’s it Yondu’s always bitching him out over? _Sentiment?_ Well, that’s certainly what he’d been running on when he took this commission: the desperate longing to not douse his conscience in another layer of blood.

Of course, contract jobs aren’t necessarily any less deadly for their victims. Peter doesn’t volunteer for assassinations on principle, but he knows they happen. That’s how Yondu accrued the worst charges on his record. The whistling sniper’s a feared figure at public events, and there’s warrants on his head from here to Pluto.

Which is why Peter’s surprised the captain’s decided this job requires a more personal touch.

“You’re coming too?” He doesn’t succeed at disguising his disappointment. He’d thought he was about to bag his first solo. Yondu raises an eyebrow.

“You rejectin’ my company, Quill? Thas mighty rare.”

A few eyebrows are raised around the Bridge; a few nudges exchanged. Peter glowers at Yondu from hooded eyes. They haven’t fucked since his last rut, and the main reason Peter would rather be alone for this mission is because he can sense that he’s due. This time round, he’d rather avoid temptation.

You see, a concept’s solidifying in his brain. One that has, until very recently, been as amorphous as a nebula.

He cares about Yondu. Despite the myriad grudges between them. What’s a little kidnapping between family? Because that’s what Yondu is to him, he realizes now as he chews his nail and struggles to think of a comeback that’ll wrench that smug smirk from Yondu’s blue mug. He doesn’t know what family, exactly – hovering between father-stand-in and annoying-big-brother – but there’s one thing Peter’s sure about, and that’s that it’s _filial_ : platonic in nature.

He just prays they haven’t corrupted that.

Still, if there’s one positive to take from this current scenario, it’s that it’ll get him and Yondu alone. They can talk. Go over things. Mull it out, and reach the inevitable conclusion – that if they want to salvage anything positive from this relationship, they’ll have to cease all forms of fuckery. Starting immediately.

Peter’s chest is tight with determination. He thumbs through the job specs, waiting for each pixelated holographic sheet to hum into focus before scanning and flicking to the next.

“Alright then, captain,” he says. “You an’ me. Undercover on Kryffon, hotel room bought by the client. We wait for the couple to occupy the bridal suite above, then saw in and pocket their star-diamond engagement rings. Sounds like a holiday.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s insane.

Loony. Cuckoo. Mad as a hatter, a nutcase, batty and mad – there’s no other explanation.

So he thinks as his captain straddles his face, wrapping his thighs around Peter’s cheeks and all but smothering him, while his sopping slit grinds indiscriminately over his chin, lips, incisors, and nose. Yondu’s got his dick wedged down his throat, purring around it like a well-fed lion. And Peter’s trying to work out how he’s supposed to breathe, eat him out, and not get teabagged by his captain’s dangling balls all at the same time.

“This is the last time we do this, right?” he gasps into Yondu’s throbbing, drooling core.

Yondu grunts something that might be ‘sure, whatever’ around his cock. He’s lying, Doubtlessly, he assumes that Peter is too.

“I mean it,” he continues. Yondu attempts to sit on his face – to shut him up, smother him, or demand more pleasure; Peter can’t tell which. He’s halted by his grip on his hips. Frustrated, he slurps messily up Peter’s shaft, disengaging with a sloppy pop.

“What?”

“Yondu, I’m serious. You and me? This is the last time.” There’s a pause. Yondu shunts his ass into the air so he can glare at Peter’s face, pinched between thick blue thighs. Peter hastens to explain himself, feeling the urge to do something, say _something_ – and to help himself bypass the primal urge in his gut that’s roaring for him to plunder the pussy still seeping sweet-smelling juices over his chin. “Nothing personal! Or… well, actually, it kinda is. Dude, you’re a cool guy, but we gotta stop.”

Yondu squints. He seems more confused than offended – or worse: angry. That emotion usually precedes a whistle, and nothing kills the bedroom atmosphere faster. “You ain’t enjoyin’ it?”

“Yes! Course I am, fuck…” His hips buck of their own accord, cockhead smacking off Yondu’s jaw, as if to accentuate that point. “But… I… I don’t wanna have you as a…” His gesticulation doesn’t help him find words. Peter blames it on the fact that Yondu’s still knelt over his head, incarcerating him between his legs and his groin. He doesn’t have room to flap.

“Fuckbuddy,” Yondu supplies. Peter nods, a little too desperate.

“Y-yeah. I… Look man. This’s just too confusing. Right now I don’t need someone to screw. I need a… A…”

His tongue quails over the words. Once again, Yondu comes to his rescue, finding him a substitute that encompasses what Peter wanted to say without actually giving it voice. “A captain.”

Peter’s swallow rasps as hoarse as those words in Yondu’s throat. That sounds better than ‘father’. “Captain,” he agrees. And Yondu nods. He clambers off him – but not without giving Peter’s cock a last awkward pat, as if in farewell – and starts pulling up his pants.

Peter was expecting many things. Raised voices, bared teeth. He wasn’t expecting… This.

“Um. I’m sorry?”

“Don’t got nothing t’apologize for.” Yondu scrubs a hand through where his hair would be, if he had any. “Yer right, for the record. We let this go on too damn long. There was you thinkin’ I wanted it, an’ me thinkin’ you needed it…”

Peter doesn’t like the sound of those last clauses. “You didn’t want it? But –“

“I said yes, an’ I had fun.” Yondu wrenches up his zipper so rapidly he almost relieves himself of his second-favourite organ. He hides his pussy from sight. The ease on Peter’s consciousness is palpable, though Yondu’s mouth-watering musk still weighs on his nostrils, as Peter’s must do on his. “But yer too damn young for me. And – les’ be honest – not exactly a stellar fuck.” He barrels on before Peter can protest. “Only kept this up as long as I did because no one else’d fuck yer sorry ass in Rut.”

“You never fucked my ass.”

“Yeah well. That's next on my agenda. So you better split while ya can still walk, boy.”

There’s motivation if Peter’s ever heard it. Not that there isn’t something attractive about the idea, but…

“You’re an Omega,” he says, frowning as he rolls for the edge of the nest. “You can do that?” Yondu pointedly grasps his cock through the front of his leathers. “Well yeah, obviously you got both, but… Guess I just never thought an Omega’d…”

A blue finger jabs his nose. “Ya don’t know shit about what it’s like t’be an Omega, so shut yer damn trap.” Peter obeys. Yondu’s jaw untenses slowly, and he shifts away from the bed, pacing back and forth over the plush hotel carpet, bare toes sinking deep into the fronds. “So now what? We pretend this ain’t never happened?”

Peter takes this to mean he’s revoked the trap-shutting order. “I’d like that,” he says, tentative. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Course I wouldn’t. Like ya said, this’s for the best.” Sighing through his nose, Yondu gives up his pacing in favour of slumping on the bed besides Peter. He doesn’t attempt to withhold contact, knee banging Peter’s thigh. But there’s nothing sexual about it.

Peter feels a faint dig of regret – very faint – as Yondu scratches his bare blue chest, thinking that this is to be the last memory of them sharing space so familiarly. However, it’s outweighed by his relief. Relief that he’s finally worked up the guts to say what’s been chewing at him for years. Relief that they’re a step closer to sorting this fucked-up relationship out.

…Unfortunately, his cock doesn’t get the message. All it’s telling him is that there’s an Omega nearby, and Peter has yet to cum.

“Uh, Yondu?” He squirms awkwardly over the quilt, cock bobbing high. “Not that I wanna go back on myself or nothing, but… S’gonna be a long night waiting for the bridge and groom to show up, ‘specially if I’m rocking a knot. Could we pick up where we left off? Just this once?”

Yondu cracks an eye. His legs have landed spread, stuck out straight. They’re a fair sight shorter than Peter’s, and his knee doesn’t reach the crook of the mattress, leaving his shins and feet jabbing out midair. When he rubs between his thighs, stirring up a saccharine slew of pheromones, his toes curl in on themselves and flex in time with the languid, flat-fingered circles he’s painting over his clothed cunt. “One last time?”

That leather must be getting all sloppy and sticky on the inside. Peter yearns to taste it, smell it, bury his face in it, coat his dick with it and fuck on in.

“One last time,” he chokes, and rolls on top of Yondu before his smirk can split into a mocking laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is gonna go well...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CN: Dubcon towards the end.**

“We oughta get drunk,” Yondu says. “Make an occasion of it.” His words are puffs of stale air shaped directly into Peter’s mouth. Peter agrees wholeheartedly – but is too busy forcing himself not to register the taste of half-metal, half-yellowed teeth to muster a coherent reply.

Yondu takes over, as always. He rolls away from Peter, towards the conveniently-placed chest in the corner.

They’ve ordered booze to their room – can’t do a good stake-out without it. Yondu splits the first can. Froth spills over his fingers, white and thick. Watching him lick it off makes something bloom in Peter’s chest. Not _love_ , or _desire_ – at least, not desire beyond that caused by the slick secretions running down Yondu’s thighs, seeping through the leather along the seams.

But _something_. Fondness. Affection, of the particular vibrant violent blend that only Yondu can eke from him.

It’ll be nice, he thinks, to share this last instance of happiness. After his rut’s sated, they can work towards reassembling their relationship into a less sexual mould, and they can do it sans-regret.

Of course, he’s wrong.

Control starts to spiral away once they get through the larger. And rather than calling quits, Peter wobbles over to the fridge-chest and digs his hands into the ice for hidden treasure.

What he turns up is far beyond his wildest expectations. It’s a bottle of Kalzorian whiskey, pleasantly matured if the astral date scrawled on the label is to be believed. Peter gasps. Now, he’s had the moonshine version. Every Ravager’s weaned on that stuff: clears sinuses, necrosifies livers, and dissolves braincells by the thimbleful. But this is the genuine article.

Yondu’s eyes widen when he spots it. He rolls onto his front, stirring the crumpled sheets of the single bed Peter’s claimed, and reaches out with a demanding hand. “Gimme.”

“Uh, no. Finders keepers. Get your own.”

“Nuh-uh. Count only forked out for one bottle.”

Peter nods – then glares. “You knew it was there! Did you plan on telling me?” Yondu’s snigger tells him all he needs to know. “Ass.”

That snigger devolves into a filthy smirk. Yondu waits until Peter’s within reach, rolling to the edge of the bed and spreading his legs to entice Peter between them. Then whips a cheeky hand behind him, and delivers that ass one cracker of a spank.

“Ow!” His grip on the bottle falters. Yondu, cackling like a cartoon villain, snatches it and retreats to the far side of the bed, popping the cork with a well-practiced flick of the thumb. It smacks the windowpane.

Reinforced glass. Thank fuck – Peter doubts the Count would appreciate losing his deposit on a room this swanky, no matter how many diamonds he gets in recompense.

Yondu take a long swig. His eyes sliver as the back of his throat starts to sizzle. Peter imagines it: fire in his gut, vapors in his nose.

He crawls across the bed, crowding Yondu against the wall – and when Yondu finally pauses to breathe and tips the bottle in his direction, neglects it in favour of a more direct method of sharing.

Whenever they’ve kissed in the past it’s always been a battle: Yondu fisting Peter’s hair and yanking his head to an angle where he can fuck his tongue between the slippery ring of his lips, Peter grabbing Yondu’s jaw and pressing determinedly forwards to reverse the dynamic. This? This is something melty and soft and all kinds of perfect. Yondu’s mouth opens with a wash of flavour: hot flesh and saliva.

The liquor blurs Peter’s senses with its potency. Their teeth click, metal on enamel. Peter swallows, struggling to get the spirits down while properly enunciating his moan.

“Damn, that’s good,” he whispers when they break apart, bound by a slender string of spit. Up close, Yondu’s grin is inescapable for all its imperfections: too broad and discoloured and crinkly around the edges. But for once, Peter can’t bring himself to care.

Last time, right? Might as well make it a good one.

He and Yondu share another searing series of whiskey-kisses, alcohol passed back and forth between their mouths. The amber light’s kind to Peter’s skintone, making his bulky muscle look suppler and smoother than it is. His chest hair glows auburn.

Yondu strokes it like one might a small hamster, smile crimping one side of his mouth. His expression is the most genuinely happy Peter ever remembers seeing it. Their disfigured relationship must’ve been disturbing him too. Being released from this unspoken deal, where he and Peter use one another to sate their sexual urges, strips ten years from his face.

…Speaking of sexual urges though, Peter can’t hold back any longer. He frees the bottle from Yondu’s hand with a gentle twist. It comes easily, but the frosty kiss of the glass does little to cool Peter’s sweating palms.

He lays those palms on Yondu as soon as the bottle’s secured on the bedside table, out of potential flailing range. Yondu _purrs_. Arranges himself beneath Peter, clad only in his pants. The leather’s soft and old, well-worn like his captain and just as durable. Yondu’s thighs carry just enough plumpness to make them pleasant to squeeze.

“Damn,” says Peter, when blue arms close around his neck in what is either a tight embrace or a stranglehold. Yondu pushes his lower body up, Peter’s cock skidding over him.

“Yeah.” He ruts his hips upwards in a tight circle, trapped cock stretching the material between them. “Yer gonna have to get off me though, unless ya plan on ripping my pants.”

“Fuck no. You’d only make me pay for them.”

Yondu’s snickers carry them through until he’s stripped and they can rearrange. Peter hovers at the bed’s edge, uncertainty looming – because he’d relished having Yondu beneath him, acting all pliant and fuckable (by his standards, at least), and now he’s relinquished that position he fears he’ll never get it back.

He’s mistaken.

Yondu kneels on the bed. He gives Peter an assessing look. Then falls forwards on his stomach and pointedly scootches his ass into the air. Peter gets a clear view of his puss, soft and damp as a peach, shimmery with thick sweet juice. His throat clamps up.

“Not you on top?”

Yondu shrugs. “Hey, even the ol’ favorites get boring eventually. Like this, ya can pretend I’m someone else.”

Peter appreciates the courtesy. However, he’s not a complete asshole. While he’s more than eager to let their sexual escapades grind to a halt, he wants to savor this final bumping session in all its ugliness.

“Shut it,” he says, kneeling up on the mattress and grabbing Yondu’s hip to steady himself when his whiskey-bloated brain overbalances. “You’re damn hot, y’know. In a weird sorta way. Just… not… right. Not for me.”

“You don’t gotta explain, boy.” Yondu’s voice sounds kindly – although it could just be muffled from the pillow he’s pulled across to cushion his chest. He reaches behind himself, pulling his asscheeks apart to create a landing runway even the most inexperienced pilot would struggle to miss. “C’mon now. Lemme feel yer knot.”

Peter knows he’s tipsy. Knows Yondu is too, and that whatever inhibitions left unhindered by his rut have been thoroughly obliterated by the alcohol. HIs head spins, vision blurred. When he ducks to sniff the nape of Yondu’s neck, the room moves too slowly at the edges, as if he’s watching through a revolving, slopping glass.

He intends to leave a hickey there. Can picture it in his mind’s eye: swollen and purple and aching, bruised as Yondu’s cunt’s gonna be after the thorough fucking Peter has planned for it. However, as he positions himself, dick skidding in Yondu’s slick, he realizes that the familiar aroma of Omega-in-need cedes to something quite different at this particular patch of Yondu’s throat.

Here it smells... Dark. Spicy. Cinnamon mixed with cloves and sweat and something else alluringly tantalizing that Peter can’t put his finger on.

He’s desperate to know what it is though. He buries his nose at the crook of his neck and inhales as he guides his prick deep into Yondu’s lube-dripping channel, groaning at the feel of his body splitting open around him.

At this angle, Peter can drive in far enough to hammer his cervix. But it’s also easier to angle _down._ He knows he’s pressing on his g-spot when Yondu’s hands jerk for his cock and clit, shoulders and face buried into the pillow, biting his lips raw to smother the whimpers. Peter smiles. He relishes the way Yondu freezes and quivers when his teeth brush his neck, pussy a tunnel of contracting velvet that ripples up and down Peter’s shaft.

“Careful,” he warns, even as he arches into the graze of incisors, squelching back on Peter’s cock until his asscheeks smush on his lower belly. “Don’tchu go nibblin’ back there. Don’t – ah! – want, uh, no _accidents_ …”

Peter, engrossed in exploring the soft-overlaid muscle of Yondu’s abdomen and thighs, doesn’t notice his words – or is too far-gone to care. All he knows is that Yondu’s letting him fuck him like a proper Omega. Peter is alight with fireworks; they burst every time he saws into the kneeling blue body before him, sparks racing from his cock like jagged lightning. His eyes flutter shut, lashes tickling the wrinkle of skin around Yondu’s implant.

“Gonna cum soon,” he says in Yondu's ear. Sucks the lobe into his mouth, chewing the stud, tugging until the skin stretches. “Want it harder?”

His voice comes out in a husk he rarely hears when he’s not hungover. Yondu doesn’t answer him, head dangling between his bunching shoulders. But he does tilt his pelvis and clench, cunt pulling at Peter’s cock like it doesn’t want to let it go.

He ceases self-pleasuring to clutch the sheets. These he pulls in, clawing like a cat. All efforts at purchase are futile; Peter fucks him forwards over the bed, and Yondu only succeeds in wrenching the sheets into a messy rosette that centers around his and Peter’s joined bodies.

The ruler-neat hospital corners are ruined. The headboard beats the wall like a galley drum in a storm: rhythmic veering to frenzied. A pillow, tilting on the cusp, loses the fight with gravity and plops to the floor, just as Peter’s knot, agitated by the constant friction of their sex, starts to fill.

It pops in and out of Yondu’s body. The passage is easy at first. Peter grits his teeth against the desire to buck hard enough to puncture the tight pinch of Yondu’s womb and _hold there_ while squirting him full. He keeps fucking.

The first extra centimeter to Peter’s base-girth makes Yondu hum happily; he wriggles back, demanding as ever, as his entrance ripples from the onslaught. After that, it has to flex to allow the passage of still-swelling flesh. Then distend. Then strain. Finally Peter can’t take it anymore; he stretches Yondu manually and batters his engorged knot in to pulse against his inner lining.

Yondu moans and shudders and cums on the mattress. Peter follows shortly after, scarcely daring believe that he’d outlasted him.

This session hasn’t been fraught with their usual competitiveness. If anything, Peter finds that reassuring. Sure, he now knows how pleasant fucking his boss can be. That doesn’t change the fact that Yondu _is_ his boss – and so much more besides. If Peter’s still sure he wants to discontinue after a round _this_ invigorating, it means he’s making the right decision.

So, as he slumps onto his side, drawing Yondu’s body with him, and spoons him in the midst of the rumpled mess they’ve made of the swanky single bed, Peter could be forgiven for thinking everything was perfect.

Heck, this is practically _utopic_. Yondu drifts on the borderline of consciousness, nuzzling back into Peter’s spoon in a way he never would while sober. The two of them lay skin-to-skin, one of Peter’s hands tracing the scar on Yondu’s belly, while the other lays crushed beneath him.

Peter stretches, his feet sticking into the cool air past the edge of the bed. He’s tipsy, veering drunk. He’s happy, and the writhing jitters of his rut have been abated – at least for now. He could very easily drift into a dreamless slumber.

But there’s that curious, tantalizing spot on Yondu’s nape; the one that lays against his lips with infinite trust. It’s not just crying out for a hickey, Peter realizes. It wants something more. Something _permanent_.

Peter, brain bloated from whiskey and pheromones, decides there’s only one way to go about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Quill’s earlier mouthing was soft as a mother lifting her cub. Now incisors scratch bluntly, leaving parallel abrasions like the sores from a too-tight collar.

Quill’s jaws aren’t powerful enough to chomp through cervical vertebrae. Yondu ain’t afraid of getting the praying-mantis treatment. They harbor more than enough strength to pierce flesh though – and next to dying, there’s nothing more sobering than the threat of being mated.

Yet Yondu supposes concaving the brat’s nose in retaliation for spooking him might come a little too close to _showing fear_ for a Ravager of his stature. Quill’s not actually stupid enough to follow through. He’s just toying with him. Getting himself off on those stupid traditionalist values he was raised to respect: the ones Yondu detests with every brawny blue fiber of his being, which claim Omegas crave being put in their place.

Yondu ain’t gonna rise to the bait. He won’t give Quill the satisfaction.

Instead, he calls Quill’s bluff. He lies there unresisting, his only sound of protest a snort so that Quill knows he hasn’t fooled him.

In a proper mating situation (which this most definitely is not) an Alpha marks the Omega over their neck gland, in that selfsame spot that Peter’s canines crest now, letting Yondu feel their individual imprint, the unspoken threat. Such a declaration of ownership is deemed too brutal for most civilized star-systems. In the Nova Empire, the only legalized bonding ceremonies are reciprocal ones where the Omega bites back – in which case the drawbacks of being mated go both ways.

Yondu scowls at the thought. Sure, it’s cute that some lucky couples live in a secure enough situation that they can justify sharing a bite – and thus sharing everything that should remain packed into an individual’s head: thoughts, feelings, emotions and pain. But such nonsensical declarations of affection are far too dangerous, sentimental, and _soft_ for Ravager Admirals to indulge in.

Not that Yondu’d want to anyway. Why’d he be interested in going exclusive? Because, as everyone knows, a bitten Omega is unfuckable. Their hormones go haywire, nerves crisscrossing, connecting them with their Alpha through a quasi-psychic link. A psychic link with significant physiological effect. If their Alpha fucks another, it’s uncomfortable. If another Alpha fucks them, it can be deadly.

Yondu doesn’t know if stories of bonded Omegas going into shock when they fancy a lil meat on the side are urban legends. But he sure ain’t volunteering to test the theory – which is why Quill’s sudden transition from kissing to nibbling comes as a nasty shock.

It gets worse though. Because when Yondu makes to writhe away, Quill _snarls_ from the back of his throat: a sound of pure animal domination.

Feral predator. Yondu freezes.

Sure, he might tease him about being a closet-Beta, but it's all guff; the boy’s an Alpha through and through. And like all creatures Alpha, Beta, and Omega alike, he has the capacity to be led by instinct – sometimes past the point of cruelty.

This is proved when, ignoring Yondu’s hiss, Quill rolls atop of him again. He’s still buried inside. The tug of his swollen cockroot makes the both of them groan – although Yondu’s not in a headspace for pleasure, not with Quill snorting over his neck.

“Quill,” he gasps, fighting to get his arms under him and gain some leverage. “Quill, what’chu doin’ boy?”

Quill doesn’t answer. Not verbally at least. The hot whuffs of air over Yondu’s shoulders are disturbingly devoid of vocalization – as if Quill’s reverted to a primal animal state. Yondu grips the sheets in front of him, knuckles bleeding white.

“Quill,” he says again. Wriggles, testing the tightness of his grip. Not that he’d be able to get far with Quill’s knot jammed up his hoo-ha. But perhaps if Yondu could turn around and sit them face-to-face, Quill’d come back to himself? Anything to get his neck away from the boy’s greedy inhales, the hot humidity of his panting, the danger of those blunt Terran teeth…

Yondu doesn’t get the chance to try. The moment he twists, squirming over Peter’s knot like an eel in a fist, Quill growls something unintelligible and slams him flat.

He pins him to the bed with his superior weight, gathers his scruff between his teeth, and _bites_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OOOH SHIIIIIIT**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which we all pity Yondu and Peter's genitals.**

In under five seconds, he regrets it.

”No, no, you gotta be careful, you’re gonna hurt yourself…” Peter desperately tries to grab him, catch his flailing arms, hold him rammed onto his knot like a butterfly impaled on a pin. All he gets for his efforts are a bloodied nose and Yondu roaring furiously in his face.

“I don’t care! Get it outta me! Get outta me, _now_!”

Spittle flecks Peter’s cheeks. If the bride and groom have arrived yet, they’re gonna be calling down with a noise complaint any minute. Yondu’s eyes glow, so bright that the bioluminescence streaming from them merges with that gathered around his implant in a pulsating wreath of fire, which halos his bald skull like the corona around a bursting star. Only time Peter’s seen his implant wax that bright is before a whistle.

Shit.

“Shit, okay, okay!” He cranes away from him, praying the knot just pops free. But it’d only been partially inflated when he entered Yondu; by now the capillaries have puffed to their fullest, and the bulge at the base of his cock is fat as a grapefruit.

The puffy blue labia pinch around his root, squeezing the narrow ring of flesh between knot and groin. No way is he wrenching it free, not without tearing him. And regardless of how Yondu’s looking at him (spitting fire and fury, still clutching his neck and the bitemark that spurred this whole mess) Peter can’t do that.

“You gotta calm down though. And… And don’t hit me!”

He catches this fist before it can be introduced to his nose once more, and make the break devastating to his good looks rather than just a temporary setback. Yondu swings the other instead, while Peter’s fumbling at that humid, sticky join of their bodies as if he can just press a switch and his knot will shrink. He catches Peter on the temple, dashing him brutally to one side.

Only problem being that they’re still attached.

Peter’s momentum drags Yondu with him, yanking him harshly over by the cunt.

It must feel like he’s gouged a fishhook there: Yondu certainly hollers like it, although Peter almost drowns him out, yelling something nonsensical and inarticulate as his cock wrenches in the opposite direction.

“Get it out!” That’s the first coherent thing Yondu screams at him. They’ve landed on their sides, Yondu having swivelled to face him. He kicks his legs with the rage of a dying animal, nails digging into Peter’s abdominals as he attempts to contract his way to freedom. He can’t shift more than an inch along the knot before it wedges, pussy-lips straining.

Oh god. That tightness Peter’d relished when he first bottomed out inside him sure isn’t arousing any more.

“Ow!” He grabs Yondu’s hips, roughly yanking him so he’s fully seated again. “Stoppit!”

“ _Out_!” Yondu somehow wrestles his legs up between them. He kicks Peter hard, winding him, and pushes away so his trunk’s angled perpendicular to Peter’s rather than parallel to it. Given that his cock’s still buried in that trunk, Peter’s not happy about this. Strong thighs bunch under his hands as he tries to grapple Yondu back to a grabbable level, toes gouging his pectorals. Fuck, if Yondu pushes away from him using his leg strength… He’ll rip himself apart, and Peter’s knot along with it.

There’s only one thing Peter can do.

Distract him.

“Ooh child,” he sings, as he struggles to catch breath. “Things are gonna get easier…” The soft, shaky words are so incongruous with their current situation that a part of him prays Yondu will see the funny side and laugh. It’s not to be.

He does freeze though – which is exactly what Peter was going for.

“Ooh child…” He plucks Yondu’s feet from his chest, shuffling them until his legs are wrapped securely around Peter’s torso. “Things are gonna get brighter…”

“I hate this song,” Yondu mutters.

Peter rolls them so he’s lying on his back – gently, this time. He pulls Yondu to lay on top of him, and breathes a massive internal sigh of relief when he complies with minimal resistance. “Someday, yeah, we’ll get it together and we’ll get it all done, yeah… Someday when the world is much lighter…”

“Y’know them lyrics don’t make no sense in Xandarian?”

Peter’s been told as much before. He doesn’t care, and suspects Yondu doesn’t really either. His heart rate slows gradually; Peter gathers him in his arms for the duration, pressing their chests tight until the too-fast, spooked pitter-patter lulls into firm strong beats. He gets through an entire verse before Yondu’s breath evens. He gives Peter’s ribs a poke.

“You can leggo now, boy.”

“You ain’t gonna rip off my cock now?”

“Considerin’ it.”

When Peter only tightens his grip, Yondu releases a puff of air over his collarbone. His chilly nose digs into Peter’s neck, as if he’s considering leaving a matching bite. It’s not quite a nuzzle, but it’s something. An unspoken promise that Peter isn’t about to be castrated. Or at least that’s how Peter chooses to interpret it; he hopes for the sake of his and Yondu’s genitalia that he’s right.

“Won’t be long now,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “It’ll go down soon. You’ll be fine.” Yondu snorts. This time the poke’s more an open handed smack.

“Sentimental brat. Didn’t I say not to coddle me?”

Peter tentatively relinquishes his straight-jacket hold on Yondu’s torso. He rubs a thumb along Yondu’s implant, watching the fuzzy light refract around it. “Nah. This right here’s self-preservation. For my future spawn – yours are just being saved into the bargain.”

Yondu’s scoff tells him he’s not convincing anyone. “You’re more spawn then I’ll ever need.”

“Ew.” Not even the significantly reduced threat of losing his favourite appendage can stifle Peter’s disgust; his face pulls tight as an infected wound. “Seriously? Ya gotta say that when we’re… well…” A vague gesture at the pair of them says all he needs to. Of course Yondu has to put it into words, for the purpose of grossing Peter out further, if nothing else.

“Naked,” he intones dryly. “In bed. Covered in spunk. Stuck together. Mated.”

Okay. One of those things is not like the others. Peter’s brain turns to ice. “…What?”

Yondu tips his head up to crook his eyebrows at Peter close-range. His face isn’t any more pleasant at this distance than it is when Peter’s fucking him. “Ya didn’t realize? Fuck.” A self-deprecating laugh – rare; usually Yondu has no trouble finding some other poor sod to bear the brunt of his sadistic humor.

Peter isn’t listening to him. He can’t. _Mated?_ What the fuck does Yondu mean; _mated?_ They can’t mate! Peter’s twenty-three, for fuck’s sake. He’s got his whole life ahead of him! A life he doesn’t want to spend with some old blue scumbag who gets his kicks from fighting, butchering, and abducting young Terrans!

Yondu chuckles mirthlessly again. “Dunno why yer freakin’ out so much, kid. Yer the one that bit me, so I got the shorter end of the stick, so to speak…” Then he sees the panic set in to Peter’s eyes and has to scramble to restrain him before Peter can re-enact his earlier struggles. “Fuck! Calm the fuck down! Damn, ow, fuck, _ow!_ Stoppit!”

“Get me out!” Peter shrieks, battering at Yondu. He struggles to rip his knot from his clamped-tight body, making the both of them wince and yelp. Something tells him that the wetness between them isn’t just sweat and leaking jizz – but Peter’s too terrified to care. “Get me out of you, now!”

 

* * *

 

 

Yondu’s sitting a little way off when Peter comes to. He’s clothed in full captain’s regalia, the grotty Ravager garb filling out his form and making him seem bigger than he is. “Hey,” he says, not looking at Peter. “That was fer yer own good, before ya start bitching. Now hurry up an’ get dressed – the lucky couple’ve arrived, an’ we got work to do.”

“Bitching about wha – Oh.” The headache strikes as the grogginess recedes. Peter probes his skull and finds a pudgy bruise. “You knocked me out?”

“Yeah. Damn bright idea; don’t know why I didn’t earlier. Made your knot go down a whole lot faster.”

“Ugh…”

His entire groin feels tender, like the muscle’s been strained. His prick lays like a wet sock on his thigh. The knot’s deflated though, true to Yondu’s word. For some reason, Peter’s assured that that’s a good thing.

It takes his memories several minutes to piece themselves together. When they finally mesh in an order that approaches coherency, it’s all he can do to hope this is a bad dream.

“Oh God,” he croaks. The pain in his skull bites with a vengeance – karma for the bloody mark on Yondu’s nape, the one that means so much more to Peter now he’s sober. “I mated you. God.”

“Yeah, no shit, idiot.”

Yondu’s loading Peter’s plasma-pistol for him. He rolls each capsule between finger and thumb before shunting them home. Their glow makes Yondu’s skin shimmer luminous, like that of a jellyfish.

The morning light on this planet is as watery as the gruel they’re fed on deep-space flights, where all the crew subside on strict rations and any who misbehave vanish, only to appear swinging from meathooks in the galley. It washes Yondu’s defensive hunched figure in shadows that’re too soft and gentle for the situation at hand.

Peter may not need his gun on a stealth-grab mission. But he recognizes that the repetitive motion of slotting them into the lock and then into the barrel gives Yondu something else to focus on other than his sort-of-son.

His sort-of-son who’s now his mate.

Peter, pallid and clammy with cold sweat, struggles to sit. He clutches his tender temples in the fear they’ll crack at the altitude change and leak brains all over the bed. In this moment, he feels like a kid again – a little boy lost in the stars, turning to his captain for direction.

“What do we do?” he asks.

Yondu doesn’t look at him. His mouth’s a grim, pinched blue line. “We do the job. We fetch the diamonds. Then we figure out how the hell we reverse this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me your thoughts plz**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A little more plot for y'all. And lots of angst, because.... angst.**

The plan’s simple, all things considered. If the couple’s sleeping, they make a vague effort at being quiet. If they’re awake, they’re restrained for the duration of the robbery and left bound and helpless with a Do Not Disturb sign hung on the doorknob for the turn-down team to discover the next day.

There’s no murder involved – thank fuck, Peter thinks. He doesn’t have the stomach for it after this omnishambles of a day. Yondu’s already stated that killing the marks would be counterproductive. It’d take more effort to lug the bodies to the nearest garbage pit than the diamonds are worth – especially when the Ravager captain’s limping, tender from the fuck.

Yeah, thinks Peter, wincing as his raw cock scrubs his fly. They’ll both be feeling this one for some time.

Yondu gives him another swig of whiskey for fortification. It makes the awful actuality of their situation a little mellower, a little looser, a little washy around the edges. Right now, Peter’s tempted to chug the whole bottle and give himself alcohol poisoning. Anything to escape what he’s done.

How does he say sorry? How does he even _begin_ to apologize? Because Christ, this is all his fault. He’d gone too far, gotten carried away, uninhibited and hungry…

He can’t blame it on the alcohol. Can’t even blame it on Yondu, who’d let that aromatic patch of skin on his nape rest against Peter’s lips with entirely too much trust, and expected him not to take advantage.

There’s only himself. And while Peter may still be relatively uneducated about Alpha and Omega dynamics, he understands that he’s got the better end of the deal.

This mark is one-sided. While he’s projecting every jot of mental anguish into Yondu’s head, the same doesn’t apply in return.

On cue, Yondu growls. He stalks over to Peter and slams his balled fist into the wall by his head. Peter hardly jumps, eyes dull and apathetic.

“Boy!”

“Yeah?”

“Quit it!”

“Quit what?”

“Quit yer…” Yondu’s hands wave, expressive beyond words. His sneer grows until it eats up half his face. “…Yer damn moping! It happened. Les’ get on with this!”

Peter clears his throat. “I held you down,” he croaks. Repeats it, as if to hammer home his guilt: “I _held you down_.”

Yondu scoffs. He’d be close enough to kiss if he weren’t snarling, every yellowed and metal-capped tooth on display. “An’ I didn’t whistle my arrow through yer fool skull!”

“Yeah?” Peter meets his glare head-on. “Maybe you should’ve.”

“I’m sure as hell considerin’ it now!”

They posture a moment longer. Or rather, Yondu postures. Peter slumps. The bottle warms to the heat of his palms, sweat mingling with the condensation drizzling over its surface. His head hurts. There’ll be a bruise the exact size and shape of Yondu’s fist come morning, and Peter deserves every knuckle-shaped imprint.

His cock hurts too – the knot’s deflated, but the skin around the groin is tender, far beyond what is pleasurable. Sitting still for too long means he has nothing else to concentrate on except the pain between his legs, but Peter suspects moving would make it worse. And so, he remains. Back against the headboard. Feet stirring morosely at the sheets, which are slick with cum and sweat and a bright stripe of blue blood.

Peter fixes on that. The smear swims into focus, Yondu’s too-close face blurring in compromise. “You’re bleeding,” he croaks.

Yondu removes his fist from the wall – there goes that deposit – and rubs open-palmed across his nape. He swears when his hand comes back wet. Peter seconds the sentiment. But rather than bitching that this is all Peter’s fault – which, for once, it is – Yondu just huffs and smears the excess on Peter’s jacket.

He crawls onto the bed and sits over that damning stain (from where Peter had pinned him and _bit;_ and fuck, he knew Yondu was smaller than him, but he never realized how much, and now there’s bile swimming in his throat because it’d been so easy to hold him there, usual strength amplified tenfold by the rut, keep him facedown on the mattress, squirming helplessly away from each thrust and the feel of Peter’s incisors puncturing one at a time…)

Smack.

Peter’s face cracks to one side. He drops the bottle. It rolls off his lap, whiskey glugging onto the sheets. The smell is strong enough to make the hairs in his nostrils curl.

Yondu spares a moment to rescue it – that’s hundreds of units worth of alcohol that’re spilling, after all. Potentially-traumatized or otherwise, Yondu Udonta is still a Ravager Admiral. Then he calmly sets it on the bedside table, shuffles forwards until he’s almost on Peter’s lap, and slaps him back in the other direction.

It’s controlled. Smooth. Almost methodical. There’s no real anger there, only frustration with Peter for being his usual sad sap of a Terran self. And that stings worst of all. Because of course, the only time Yondu’s not mad at Peter is when he actually deserves it.

Peter’s cheeks sting. He must look truly pathetic: bruise pinching one eye shut, face warmed by the ringing blows, whiskey drooling over his chin and pantleg.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

It needs to be said. But the words themselves are so inadequate. Just… just shaped air. They’re not enough. They’re never gonna be enough… His hands come up like he’s trying to curl around Yondu’s shoulders, pull him into a hug. He forces himself to abort the motion though. Who knows if Yondu wants to be touched? He’s well within his rights to order Peter away from him, to tell him to never so much as look at him, ever again.

The knowledge that Yondu won’t do that hurts almost as much as the possibility that he might.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

A noisy sigh. Then a softer one. Then a weight, slung across his folded legs. Yondu curls gingerly over him, shins banging Peter’s, wary of both sets of overstressed genitals, which have been through more this past hour than they ought to in a lifetime. “Quill. Kid. Stop. We got a job to do. Third rule of Ravaging?”

Peter sniffs, wiping his nose on Yondu’s collar. He repeats the lesson that was drummed into his head by the same man he now clings to, desperately, fingers digging into leather-overlaid biceps. “Sentiment’s for suckers.”

“Fourth rule?”

“Don’t be a sucker.”

“S’right.” Blunt, chipped nails card the hairs at the base of Peter’s skull, where wiry ginger curls cede to softer fuzz. They tangle. Then pull. And _oh_ – it’s just as perfect as it was that first time, when an eighteen year old Peter who believed that Alphas and Omegas had their established boxes from which they weren’t allowed to stray was proved wrong in every conceivable way. “Good boy. Now, let’s go make some mint.”

 

* * *

 

 

First thing they did upon arriving in their hotel room – before they even started shucking off clothes or pawing at each other – was saw a hole in the ceiling.

It’s surprisingly unobtrusive. Yondu brought one of his gadgets along: a machine that can clamp onto any flat surface. Once positioned it’ll activate automatically, blade sweeping around in a sharp loci, slicing a porthole-window into any material up to and including diamond. The legs fasten around the circumference of the hole, meaning that the sawn material doesn’t immediately fall. Rather it’s held in place until the time comes for them to remove it, the only hint of cutting from above an irregularity in the flooring which could be passed off as the marks left from where a heavy chair or circular commode had once sat.

Now the time’s come that hole might as well be a portal into another world, for all the trepidation Peter feels at the thought of stepping through it. He’s supposed to… What? Pretend nothing’s happened?

Yondu, if the way he’s methodically attaching gauze to the bite on his neck, is opting for that route. But Peter’s conscience has never been the easiest to sway. Right now it demands that he take more punishment than a pair of blue palms, introduced quickly and without mercy to each side of his jaw.

He deserves to be whistled through. Keel-hauled. Bitten in return, so they can at least share this burden…

Yondu straightens from where he’s been ramming the bottle back into the ice cooler. He puts one hand on his hip, the other holding out a cube.

“Shove this down yer pants. It’ll help with the swelling.”

If Yondu won’t castigate him through the traditional methods, the least Peter can do is follow orders. He holds his cupped palm under Yondu’s. Yondu tips the icecube into it, and the cold wet kiss makes Peter shiver. Still, better to have that pressed against his privates than to suffer this burn any longer. He unzips – there’s no point turning away; they’ve already seen far, far too much of each other – and paints his crotch in dampening circles until the melted leakage runs down his thighs.

Yondu wordlessly passes him another. He pushes one between his own legs, unzipping the leather piece that runs from his tailbone to his pubic bone – the easy-access panel, as he likes to call it. His sigh as the cold seeps into his bruised pussy is nothing short of exalting. The noise he makes as he tries to dig his elbow between Peter’s ribs like he usually does when he wants to tease him, and Peter shies away, is rather less pleased.

“Don’t tell me yer still upset. What more do I have to do?”

 _Forgive me,_ Peter thinks. Although that’s not fair. He doesn’t want to be absolved, not when he doesn’t deserve it.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

Yondu snorts. “Like a damn broken record. You turning into your Walkthing, boy? You need some new batteries?”

When that wins a sniffle rather than a smile, Yondu’s scowl intensifies. He hops off the bed, icecube still pressed under the soft blue cock. Peter has to turn away when Yondu bends over to rummage through their gear.

Their bags spill by the vast windows – set to opaque, for the robbery rather than the sex, because while he has certain unspoken rules about being outed as an Omega in front of his men, Yondu is nothing if not an exhibitionist. Last thing Peter wants is to catch a waft of pheromones and harden again. For a start, he doesn’t think his groin muscles could take it.

He knows it’s safe to look when the creak informs him Yondu’s slung himself back onto the rumpled coverlets. There’s a Walkman in his hands, held out like an offering.

“End of the day, I’m older. I’m more experienced. I shoulda called a stop to this long ago.”

Peter reaches for the Walkman, but pauses with his fingers lingering an inch from the smooth plastic casing. Does he deserve mom’s music? God – is mom watching this? What does she think of him now?

“This isn’t like you,” he says. “Usually you blame me for everything until you’re blue in the face.” A discreet pause. “Pun not intended.”

Yondu sniggers, mouth twitching over a shiny silver tooth. He presses the Walkman forwards, and removes his grip so Peter’s got no choice but to hold the bundle of wires, headphones, and tape player.

“I’mma give you five minutes,” he says, helping himself to another ice cube. “You blast yer damn tunes loud as ya like, and get yerself into a headspace where you’ll be more use to me than a sack of pink clay. I want a Ravager, not some sentimental Terran squeeze. You understand me?"

The ‘play’ button clunks into place. The Walkman’s texture is solid and grounding – the faint vibrations as the reels begin to wind, the flimsy flex of the headphone wires as Peter tugs them into position, the softness of the earpads. Peter recalls Kraglin dragging him to a tech-fair in a Hraxian slum, showing him all the gizmos that, according to him, were a thousand times better value for money than _that cruddy old thing ya lug around._

His Walkman ain't loud enough to block out the whole galaxy. Or this world. Or even their little, sex-stinking corner of it. But it's all Peter wants.

As the sound of Yondu rummaging through the coolbox for another frothy Xandarian beer ebbs into the sweet opening chords of _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,_ Peter plasters his hands to his ears, shuts his eyes, tucks his knees to his chest, and smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yer money or yer life, suckers! You’re being robbed by Ravagers!”

It takes one glance at the flame, worn proudly on Yondu’s chest and Peter’s sleeve, to assure them that they’re not joking.

The groom had been on his knees when they walked in, fellating his Alpha-wife’s prick. He still seems dazed. Peter files him automatically as a Beta – his smell is totally bland, almost to the point of unappetizing. But hey. Who’s he to judge?

The vast majority of sentient species in this quadrant are Beta, some Alphas sprinkled in for variety. Really, Peter’s ridiculously lucky to find an Omega, let alone one who’ll willingly take his knot.

The woman takes over, prying the diamond-studded leash from her spouse’s limp hands. His collar’s unbuckled in harsh motions. But, Peter notices, they never cross into ‘brutal’ territory. Her anger’s directed entirely at them.

She’s some Xandarian sub-species: yellow-skinned, not much to look at, but with fierce eyes. They glimmer at Peter and Yondu like chipped gemstones. Given there’s more diamonds in her necklace, spilling across her bare chest and looping under her arms and around her back in an upside-down firework of gold and ice-white, so bright they could almost be illuminated from within by tiny dancing blades of fire, that comparison isn’t made lightly.

Yondu’s capped teeth look dull in contrast. But he bares them anyway, greedily running his fingers through the stones as they tinkle into the loot bag. “Good girl. Now the others.”

Oh yeah. Her necklace and her man’s collar aren’t the only blinged-out accessories on them. Peter tips his head.

“That’s a bit overkill, don’t you think?”

He keeps his gun steady on the pair, who’re backed into the corner of their swanky bridal suite, hands tucked behind their head and kept silent with the promise that the first scream will be answered with plasmashot.

No whistling. They’re undercover, or as close to it as Ravagers get, and Yondu’s arrow is far too distinctive. It’s strapped to his hip as it always is, but will be used only in emergencies. Peter’s playing the job of hired muscle – and he knows from the quiver in the Beta’s overtensed shoulders that he does it well.

The woman toes the studded thong daintily off her feet and all but flings it at Yondu’s head. He grabs it out the air, diamonds jangling, then hooks a thumb into either side of the waistband and stretches. The flimsy scrap of fabric doesn’t cover his leer.

“Naw, I reckon they’re just about right.”

“ _Careful_ with those,” snaps the bride, unable to contain herself. “They are genuine personally customized _Crovariette_ –“

That’s the name of one of the most expensive jewellers on Xandar. Some of Yondu’s dashboard ornaments bear their stamp on their base, although Peter suspects they’re knock-offs.

Yondu, ever the tease, twirls the panties round one upraised blue finger. “Oh yeah? What’chu gonna do about it?”

The woman inhales, lip curling contemptuously. “I will not stand to watch _you_ wear them, that’s for sure.” Yondu’s grin goes artfully plastic, like it always does when he’s hiding confusion. The panties droop from his hand, each diamond cut into a perfect heart by aid of a magnifying glass, a sturdy saw, and a very delicate pair of hands.

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon.” She sneers, looking down her nose at their crotches. “The reek of an Alpha’s cum is all over you, blue.” Inside him too, sour and pungent. She’s not wrong. “If _he_ weren’t in the room…” A nod to Peter, turning ever-redder behind his balaclava. “I might think it was yours.”

Dammit. Ice cubes notwithstanding, neither of them have bothered to shower. Stupid Ravager hygiene etiquette – or lack thereof. Yondu’s mask covers all but his mouth and eyes, but Peter sees the navy tinting his pointed ears.

“Boss,” he says warningly. No names on a job; Yondu's wanted on most worlds, but he has no bounty on Kryffon, although there’s a hundred-odd crimes tenuously affixed to his name. He’d like to keep it that way. It makes trips around their trinket stalls on market day much less hassle. “Don’t kill them, remember.”

A whipcrack glare. “Don’t need ya to tell me what to do, boy.” He shoves the panties in the bag, and the bag at Peter. “C’mon. Let’s split.” And that’s that.

 

* * *

 

 

The M-ship docks in the hotel port, disguised with a reflective holo-tarp. It's a perfect carbon-copy of a generic local ship Yondu had scanned on the way in.

As they approach, he grabs the corner of the tarp, and the entire image ripples like heat-haze, hues and lines separating into individual hexagonal plates. The tarp compacts into itself at a click of a button on its underside, a sleek sheet whose thickness can be measured in molecules. Once the process is over, they’re left with a palm-sized hexagon that throws back the light from the harbor spotlights, and a dusty, dark red Warbird.

“Can I drive?” asks Peter. Yondu doesn’t deign him with an answer.

“Drop-off’s in twenty,” he says curtly, springing the cockpit and swarming up the dip of the nosecone. “Let’s get movin’.”

Of course, Peter thinks, entering through the lower hatch in the conventional fashion would be far too easy. And anyway, Centaurians love to climb.

Yondu makes the ascent look effortless. Peter, when he scrambles to follow him, is somewhat lacking in grace, but he’s got a bag full of diamonds swinging over his shoulder, and his balaclava’s twizzled around so his breath rebounds muggily onto his cheeks, and his goddam dick hurts. He figures he can be forgiven. He straddles the cockpit lip, Yondu already strapping himself into the pilot’s chair.

“C’mon, y’know you’re shite at flying. And you drank more than me.”

The 'after I mated you' goes without saying. Peter makes grabby-hands at the control column.

“Lemme do it.”

“With yer own M-ship, maybe.”

Yondu hits the thrusters before Peter’s found his seat, sending him rolling around the cramped cubicle. Hard plastic chair arms and headrests dig into his kidneys. Peter, groaning, clings to his chair with the diamonds on his lap. He struggles to clip his belt together before Yondu twists the joystick and makes the ship veer sharply on its axis, like a spinning top in zero-gravity.

“Y’know the rules, Quill. If ya dent my Bird, you pay.”

Literally and figuratively. Last time he’d been on scrubs duty and accidentally banged his bucket off the Warbird’s hull, Peter had to fork over every credit he'd earned for the next month, and – worse – had been denied sex for the same.

“Don’t see why,” he grumbles, rearranging the diamonds more securely. Overhead, the cockpit pod relatches with a mechanical whine. The humdrum burbling of the spaceport, nearly deserted this late in the planet’s night-cycle, fades to muted drones. The glare from the spotlights spreads over curved sheets of shatter-resistant glass, like oil drops pipetted onto water. Yondu’s grim face is bathed in yellow. But he still cracks a grin when Peter kicks the back of his chair and completes his complaint – “You do this poor bird far more damage than I’ve ever done.”

“Me? Never. Careful what yer insinuatin’ boy. I can take ya off active pilot duty until yer forty. Then you’ll be beggin’ me to fly yer own dingy _Melon_ –“

“Her name’s the _Milano._ ”

“Flark knows why ya talk about yer damn ship like it’s a girl… Maybe you should stick yer cock in her exhaust instead.” Yondu guns out of the hangar with a screech indicative of an unreleased handbrake. Peter, wincing, decides to change the topic.

“I swear you just do that to annoy me,” he says. He drags off the balaclava, dropping it to nestle between the twinkling gemstones in the bag, which glint almost as bright as the spangled starway high above. Yondu’s grin neither confirms nor denies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope you enjoyed! Drop me a comment? x**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More violence, more angst, more grubby make-outs at the base of a volcano.**

The meet is supposed to go smoothly. But as usual where Yondu and Peter are concerned, things turn out anything but.

Okay, so that’s an exaggeration. Ninety-nine percent goes off without a hitch. Unfortunately, that final percentage is the critical one.

Peter and Yondu survive the customary quarter hour of over-flamboyant salutations. The Count’s upper crust, of a species with the Broker, which means he’ll never lower himself to be sharp-spoken, organized, and efficient, not when he can be waffly, roundabout, and generally hyperbolic. When Yondu compliments his eyebrows he preens, stroking the hideous things and twiddling them between finger and thumb. “Oh yes, my salonist is state-of-the-art. Xir can do marvellous things, if only given a little hair to work with!”

Yondu snorts. “This do?” He tugs the scruffy pelt that rings the lower half of his face. The Count twitches an eloquent nostril.

“Grow it out a little.”

“’Fraid not, this is the best it gets.”

True, as far as Peter knows. And much to his jealousy. Life’d be easier if he didn’t have to shave every second morning to maintain the perfect density of roguish stubble. They flash the diamonds, wait for the _pleep_ that means units have been transferred from the Count’s account, and turn to make their leave. That’s when things start to unravel.

“What’s that on your neck?” asks the Count.

It’s possible that Peter remembers before Yondu does. He certainly freezes first, jerking to a guilty halt like a dog caught chewing something it shouldn’t. His cock twinges like it’s strapped to a ball and chain, and although Yondu’s pussy may well have smoothed over by now, Peter wagers that whole area still aches like it's been salted.

The Count’s gaze is fixed on the peeling square of gauze glued over Yondu’s nape. His pupils fill his irises. Peter had assumed him to be a Beta – call him out for stereotyping, but the guy’s small and slight, shorter than Yondu. Seems he was wrong. “Why, that smells almost like –“

Blue fingertips graze it. Then force themselves into a fist, returning to Yondu’s side as if he’s wilfully ordering his hands not to clap over the bitemark: extra protection but also an obvious tell. “S’just a scratch. Y’know how cramped those M-ship cockpits are. Idjit here…” He barges Peter’s shoulder. “…Had to go practising his barrel rolls before I strapped in.” It had actually been the other way around. But Peter knows better than to say as such. He’ll fume at Yondu later.

The Count frowns. “These old ships of yours are dangerous. Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere, if there’s a high chance of my property being damaged in transit?”

Yondu smiles, broad and sleazy. “Won’t find no one else willing to run jobs this tough for our prices, m’fraid. And if they say they can, they’re lyin’. But hey. Why believe me? Hire the Horde next time; see what sorta shoddy service you’ll get for half the price…”

The Count lifts an elegant hand. His fingers look soft, nails polished as if they’re dipped in rosewater on a bi-hourly basis. Peter’s own hands, rough from years spent manhandling M-ship controls, pistols, and Yondu when they fuck, feel massive and unwieldy in comparison. “You have made your point, Udonta. Now, come. Shake. Settle our deal.”

He sticks it out, pale fingers waggling enticingly. Like bait on a hook. Peter, as his favorite space swashbuckler from the movies used to say, _has a bad feeling about this._

There’s no time to voice it though. Sensing a chance to finalize things without suffering through another fifteen minutes of protocol bows and scrapes, Yondu bounds forwards. He grips the Count’s palm hard enough to crush the bones of any less hardy species, and gives it three firm pumps. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, as always – woah, _fuck._ ”

That’s all the exclamation he manages. Peter’s bad feeling burgeons into a looming stormcloud. It breaks over them as the Count to use Yondu’s momentum against him, reeling him in and ripping the bandage from his nape in one smooth motion.

“Ah,” he says. Pins him to his front, facing Peter. Yondu kicks behind himself on automatic: a rat fighting the trap that’s snared it. His boot tenderizes the Count’s balls. He doesn’t seem to notice. Either he’s wearing a shock absorbent cup, or his species flouts the binary sex codes adhered to by the majority of this quadrant. “Interesting. I thought you smelt different.”

Peter jumps for his gun. He gropes air.

Shit. He left it in the box propped in the far corner of their designated meet-room, alongside Yondu’s arms. Courtesy only, in the case of the arrow. Only yaka-ore can disrupt the connection between man and weapon; the Count’s measly vibranium-plated lead shields don’t have a chance.

This is swiftly proven. When Yondu whistles his arrow through the Count’s skull in a searing blood-red streak, the box shatters immediately, and Peter’s element gun is sent skittering across the marble floor.

“What the hell?” Peter screams.

Yondu whistles holes in the Count’s bodyguards, who’ve barely had time to rummage through their multi-holsters in search of a suitable firearm. Serves the Count right for hiring goons who depend more on showmanship than actual fighting skill. Every Ravager knows that you only have one major weapon, and a second for when that major is compromised. Anything more gets confusing.

The only problem is, when you rely on one weapon so often, it becomes an extension of yourself. Peter’s seen Ravagers who never uncock their pistols even at the mess table, and frontliners whose knives might as well be prosthetic. They gesture with them when they’re pointing at what they want from the galley menu, and draw them every five minutes to check their polish, regardless of whether they’re due to enter a combat zone, as if the shimmer of the blade is addictive.

And now he knows the same is true of arrows.

Yondu wipes blood from his face. He looks shocked, as if he’d lost control – pursed his lips and blown without considering the consequences. But then his eyes thin to slits.

“He deserved it.”

Peter scrambles for his weapon, skidding in the bodyguards’ blood. Corpses that big have a lot to spill. The Count’s whole swanky marble complex will be slippery as an ice-rink by the time the cadavers run cold. This situation is already damn hellish. Having a gun won’t necessarily _resolve_ matters, but it’ll sure make him feel better. And give him something to brandish angrily at his captain. His stupid, dumb, _reckless_ captain, who may just have signed both of their death warrants...

“We _didn’t_ kill that couple because _you said_ it’d be way too much trouble to dispose of the bodies –“ And because Peter’s more than a little squeamish about the whole murdering thing; not that he’s gonna mention that. “-So you decide to butcher the boss of a crime cartel instead? In the place he set up for a meet? Where every single one of his men knows where he is, and what time he’s expected to be back? Fuck, Yondu!”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what I can and can’t do!” But despite the words, despite the way the arrow spins on its axis and darts to menace Peter’s nostrils, despite the way Yondu’s shoulders bulk under his coat and his fists squeeze tight as hangman’s knots… There’s something almost brittle about Yondu’s anger.

“You okay?” Peter asks quieter. He pads closer, gun still up. The only potential enemy’s his captain, standing stock-still with his arrow whizzing around his head like a furious wasp. But having something between them bolsters Peter’s confidence. He strives to ignore the lifeless bodies, boots squelching through the growing pool. He looks only at Yondu. “Boss?”

“Thas’ two folks who’ve smelt it.” Yondu grips the back of his neck. The arrow sets up a perimeter, whizzing too fast for Peter to see. It forces him to halt a meter away. Standing at the center of this self-imposed corral, Yondu’s eyes are glazed and bleak. “Fuck. They knew. And if they knew, they’re _all_ gonna know. I put on my scent-suppressants before we arrived, and they ain’t workin’. Quill, if I walk back onto the _Eclector_ smellin’ like this…“

He trails off. Peter swallows. He slots his gun into his waistband, ensuring the safety’s clicked off. Taking a deep breath, he takes another step forwards. Rather than skewering him, the arrow winds around him twice – an empty threat display – then returns to its sentry-duty, this time with Peter inside its ring. The carved notches of its fletching glitter blood-red, alight with swirling radiation.

Peter steps up to his captain. His mate. He notices how the intermingling scents of _Alpha_ and _Omega_ concentrate over his bitten throat. And, coincidentally, how Peter’s own jaw clenches and drool slivers his lips at the thought of sinking his teeth into him again…

Peter shakes his head. Touches Yondu’s arm – not even a squeeze, just a brush of fingertips on cold crackled leather. Yondu doesn’t lean into it. But he doesn’t jerk away either.

“Let’s get you in a bath first then,” Peter says.

 

* * *

 

 

Returning to the hotel is out. Peter mentions it, but Yondu glares at him like he’s suggested they backpack to Cuba to ‘find themselves’.

“You crazy, boy? The cute lil’ lovebirds from the room above will’ve been found by now.” He pauses. “And anyway, if we go back I might have t’pay for that hole in the wall. And some new bedsheets.” He makes good points. Peter summons the astral navigation chart. He types in the keywords – _NEAR, BODY DISPOSAL, BATHS_ – and kicks back on the copilot’s seat while the algorithm shuffles results.

Strapped into the chair behind him sits the Count. The hole in his forehead is disguised by a low-pulled cap. It won’t fool advanced scanning equipment, the Nova-grade stuff that measures life signals as well as automatically checking bounties in every star-system log on record. But if a patrolman glances through the windscreen, he’ll find nothing out of the ordinary. As for the bodyguards, they’ve been bundled up and rolled into cold storage. Yondu swears that if he’s thrown his back Peter’ll be sorry – although Peter doesn’t get how that’s fair, as none of this is his fault.

Well, Yondu’s little butchery session isn’t. The situation at large might be.

Peter’d been the one to plant the bite that had alerted the Count, which in turn had made Yondu snap and skewer him kebab-style through the brain. Domino effect. _Clatter-clatter_ go the pieces, toppling one onto the other, and while Peter was the prime mover he no longer has any control over which way the dominoes fall.

He would apologize again, but Yondu’d only let go of the joystick to punch him. Then they’d crash, and the whole ship would go up in a fireball. At least the Count would be charred enough for his demise to be passed off as an accident rather than murder, and the Ravagers wouldn’t dive into a bloody, vengeance-fueled turf war.

Peter opts for a question instead. “So uh, how does this work? This whole mating thing?” At Yondu’s incredulous scowl he elaborates. “Like, what changes? _Does_ anything change? And um, I know I’m talking but please look out the windscreen rather than at me.”

Yondu pointedly disobeys. He guns the engines and grins when Peter squeals. As a result Peter’s the only one to notice the wall of the hangar. It bulges, swelling until it fills the entirety of Peter’s vision. The cockpit of the _Warbird_ dwarfs in comparison. “Fuck, captain!” He unplugs, belts zipping back into their mounts, and wrenches the joystick to one side. “Forget I said anything! Just look where you’re going, will you?”

“Spoilsport,” mutters Yondu. But he’s smirking, and he does Peter the favor of watching where he’s steering until they’ve breached atmosphere and are drifting along the cosmic wind currents from the nearby neutron star. Peter's hands remain folded over his where they wrap around the control column, sweaty and shaking. Yondu doesn't shoulder him away. He meets the eyes of his reflectioin in the glass. “Well then? Ya got a destination for me?”

Peter, heart still thudding, checks his computer. He does.

 

* * *

 

 

Morag was deserted once the planet’s core began to degrade, and the once-peaceful surface was racked by innumerable earthquakes and pyroclastic flows. It’s a classic story. Colonists from a recently-contacted system set up camp on the first inhabitable chunk of rock they found, mined it until it bust at the seams, then wondered why they had to order a planet-wide evac not five decades down the line. But for all that it lacks in aesthetics, stable crust, and breathable atmosphere, Morag sure boasts some nice hotsprings. If it weren’t for the threat of being roasted alive at any moment by an unpredictable geyser burst, it’d be a prime holidaying spot.

Peter and Yondu are used to danger. They dock on a sturdy-looking outcrop, having scanned it for fissures and structural weaknesses and determined that it’s the toughest flat surface around. Then, Yondu with the Count over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and Peter hauling the pair of bodyguards, they click on their spacemasks and set off.

It’s a brief stomp to the nearest crater. The ground wobbles disconcertingly under their feet, as if considering liquefaction. Geysers gush and roar, scalding water exploding from the rock with the thunderous bellows of a bilgesnipe herd. And above, towering over Morag’s deformed and twisted lavascape, rise the volcanos.

Chunks of obsidian litter the landscape. They grind and they grate under their boots, screeching together like a clutch on twisted gearplates. Peter’s glad for his Ravager leathers, which are conditioned to withstand hardship, long wear, and the occasional highly corrosive fuel spillage. The soles of his boots clomp over the shards like he’s walking on a shingle beach rather than a bed of volcanic glass sharp enough to shred bone.

Overhead, ash falls in snowy clumps. Their overcoats are soon dappled grey. The weight is surprising. Morag’s gravity is only three quarters that of Earth – or of Xandar, Peter should say, given that’s the main benchmark for this galaxy. But Peter has to drop the bodies twice, and shake the ash from where it gathers in the seams of their clothes before he can lug them onwards. Admittedly that’s mostly because his cock is twinging like someone’s tied one end of a rope around it and the other to the fender of an M-ship at take-off, but their ash-laden heaviness hardly helps matters.

By the time he and Yondu reach the summit, they’re panting and wheezing, soaked in sweat. Peter can’t see Yondu’s face, not with the spacemask in the way, but his collar’s saturated at the back. Peter only prays the stain is from perspiration rather than blood.

The air wobbles around them, sickly-hot and baking. Peter dumps the bodies in a pile of scree. He swarms over the crater lip to where Yondu lays on his belly. The Ravager Admiral doesn’t acknowledge him; he stares at the rumbling churn of fire in the planet’s guts through the expressionless lenses of his mask, as if he’s hypnotized.

For all that there’s only mere inches between them, they could be galaxies apart. Peter dislikes it. It’s time they got to business.

He grabs the Count by his shoulders. Guy’s slight, especially in death. A fair amount of his stomach contents leaked out on the journey over, which means Yondu might give his M-ship a long-overdue dousing in bleach before they return – but Peter wouldn’t count on it. His limp deadweight is a struggle to handle though. Peter almost slips, treads skidding on jagged glass. The lip of the crater is fairly broad; there’s little chance of tumbling over, and even if he did fall, the slope only gets steep fifty meters from the lava lake. But Peter’s still grateful for Yondu’s hand, which snaps out and latches onto his shinguard, helping him steady himself. He grunts his thanks. Settles back onto the balls of his feet. Heaves the Count to the edge, and sends him over with a hearty shove.

The gradient’s too shallow. The Count comes to a halt, slumped over himself like he’s been caught jacking off by his grandma. Peter, grumbling under his breath, unbuckles his plasma pistol and fires off three shots, mutilating the body beyond recognition and rolling it with the percussive force.

He doesn’t _like_ killing. But once you die, you’re gone. That’s it. Nothing left. Just a thing, a husk, an empty shell. Peter remembers watching the light drain from mom’s eyes, and he grits his teeth and sets his jaw and squeezes his trigger, again and again, until the Count’s plasma-pitted body slithers over the edge and into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

 

The portable forcefield device takes five seconds to kick in. Yondu deactivates his mask with four left on the clock. Peter makes a warning noise – but Yondu doesn’t inhale. Just shuts his eyes, protecting them from the toxin-laden atmosphere, and basks in the roasting glare of the volcano.

Three. Two. One. Then Peter joins him, mask folding back in place behind his ear.

He catches the last of the heat, before the shimmering hexagonal scales of their forcefield begin to regulate and control the internal temperature, bouncing back any warmth that exceeds optimum levels. Peter turns to one of the faraway cones, drenched with cinders and bubbling magma. He shucks off his trenchcoat and stretches luxuriously, cricks popping from his neck to his ankles. “Damn, hauling bodies really takes it out of you. Huh, Yondu? Uh. Yondu, you should probably test that first… Might be acidic.”

Yondu dips his middle finger into the hotpool. Gives it a demonstrative wiggle around, then draws it out to show Peter that it has yet to melt. “We’re good,” he says.

The strange mood that’s been brewing since the Count touched his neck – since the bride at the hotel first mentioned the bite, in fact – has increased its hold. Peter would call it ‘melancholy’, if he thought Yondu capable of such an emotion. As it is, it’s heavy and oppressive and pervading, as if Yondu’s starting to wonder if there really is a way out, if there’s any way to break a bond or if he’s scuppered his entire life’s work over one drunken mistake.

When Peter freaked out, Yondu comforted him – gruffly and with the aid of physical violence, but he’d comforted him nonetheless. It’s only fair that he repay the favor.

Peter crosses to stand behind Yondu. He slips his coat from his shoulders, leaning to rub his cheek against Yondu’s neck, raking that tender space between ear and collarbone with week-old stubble. He doesn’t mean for it to progress past an embrace. But their sweat mingles, and leather tacks to flesh as it is pulled away. Shirts and belts and weighty underjackets crumple into an indistinguishable leathery soup. Ash streaks bare skin, blue and pink alike, and before Peter knows it they’re kissing.

He couldn’t tell you which of them started it. It just _happens,_ like Morag’s core just _happened_ to rupture and the Ravagers just _happened_ to be passing by Terra when they fancied a snack.

There’s a desperation to the way Yondu’s mouth moves over his. Like he’s searching for something. Trying to convince himself of one of his many lies.

He twists at the neck. Peter has to lean over his shoulder so their mouths can meet. It’s an awkward angle, but no more so than kissing someone while fucking doggy-style. Last time they’d been in that position though, it wasn’t Yondu’s lips that Peter bit. The mating mark pulses scent, heady at proximity. Drool gathers under Peter’s tongue. He sweeps his thumb over where the skin has paled from the pressure of the gauze, testing the tautness around the leaking puncture wounds, feeling out their shape and depth. Incisor. Incisor. Canine. His fingers are too big to map them; blunt nails scratch the base of Yondu’s implant, catching on the scar that joins his nape to his tailbone.

“What do you feel?” he whispers, against metal-capped teeth. “Tell me what it’s like. To be mine, to be mated…”

“S’like… S’like drowning.”

The hoarse answer surprises him. He wasn’t expecting one. From the way he clacks his mouth shut, neither was Yondu.

Peter pulls back. It takes effort to pry Yondu away; he seems to want to lose himself in the sensation, answer to nothing but the push and slide of Peter’s body. When Peter hooks his chin and eases him off, his lips purse in a soundless, irritated whistle.

“Tell me more?” Peter traces the angle of a strong blue jaw, resting over the knots where Yondu’s clenching his teeth. “C’mon, boss. We’re gonna get through this, right? You and me against the Galaxy – we can beat some dumb mating hormones, no problem. Give us a week and we’ll be back to normal, fucking who we want and doing what we like.” The fact that they have yet to consider _how_ they’re going to break the bond is another matter. Peter decides it’s best not to mention that. “For now though… I’m never gonna have another mate. And neither are you. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts?”

Yondu snorts. “Speak for yerself, boy. I might wanna retire an’ settle down in my old age.”

“What, with Kraglin?” Peter splays fingers over Yondu’s chest when the captain turns to face him, feeling the thrum of his heart. “You’d kill each other in a week, sir.” Not true. In fact, the first mate is the only person on board who can stand Yondu’s prolonged company – Peter included. But he’s not going to let that get in the way of a good make out session. “Now sir,” he says, tucking his thumbs into the waistband of Yondu’s pants while the captain winds blunt fingers through his hair. “Let’s see if we can’t wash that freshly-fucked smell off you. Not that I don’t like it, but it’s not befitting for a Ravager Admiral.”

Yondu crooks an eyebrow, smirk becoming more genuine. He uses his handful of ginger curls to tug Peter’s head to one side. Peter goes with it, skull rolling boneless on his neck, and sucks a hitching breath when Yondu licks his Adam’s apple. “Mm-hm. You ain’t gonna put the smell right back on me again?”

“Nah. I want this to be over just as much as you.” Peter rasps down Yondu’s fly. It’s hard to coordinate while Yondu’s grip forces his head back, throat exposed and vulnerable. But if that’s what it takes for Yondu to feel in control of this situation, Peter’ll gladly comply– and if he nicks the captain’s balls with the zipper, that’s Yondu’s own fucking fault then, isn’t it?

Lightning crackles around the far-off lava-wreathed summit. Urging Yondu to step out of his boots and pants, Peter kicks them to join the rest of their clothes. Yondu releases him only long enough for Peter to discard his own. Then he’s back, a firm heat sandwiched to Peter’s front that almost matches that of the volcano.

“Course,” he says as he walks Peter backwards into the shallows of the pool. “That was our last time, weren’t it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Like it? Leave me a comment!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu and Peter enjoy their hotpool, and a visit to the doctor is made.**

Captain puts up a good front. A _damn_ good front. If he couldn’t smell his own scent on his neck, impregnating the artificial Alpha-musk Yondu squirts on his pulse points every morning and bonding with the hints of _Omega-on-Suppressants_ beneath, Peter would never guess his ranking, much less that he’s been bit.

Lightning flashes. It’s lit red-gold by the volcanoes, and reflections bounce from the sooty clouds overhead, splattering the valley crimson. The corona of fire around the bubbling peak becomes a torch, lighting the way for the exploration of Peter’s fingers, which trace the curves of Yondu’s muscle and squeeze his little paunch, tracing the gnarls of a belly-scar before daringly dipping into his pouch. That results in a growl, a hiss, a warning snap. Peter obligingly retreats. He’s not willing to push - or at least, no further than Yondu’s willing to go. Not after mating him; not after what happened in the hotel. His pinkies trace the external pouch lip, light as a feather, and Yondu’s pleased squirms make water slop against the sides of the pool.

They’ll have to evacuate once the lava gets too close. But for now, basking in the shelter of the shield volcano they’d dumped the bodies into, they’re safe, they’re warm, and they’re entirely too comfortable. The water’s milky radiance is gentle, smoothing wrinkles and scars. Peter and Yondu move against one another with an ease born from hours spent in the other’s company, long days punctuated by hurried fucks in storage closets or Yondu’s bunker, or even occasionally Peter’s own bed: Yondu’s neck cricked so he can fit himself between Peter’s cock and the pallet above, bitching the whole while but wearing a grin on his face that would dwarf the Cheshire cat’s.

Peter misses those days. Which seems strange to say, given Yondu’s currently purring in his lap, hot and slick between the legs and far more nuzzly than usual. But Peter knows nothing will ever be so simple again. They’re not just fuckbuddies anymore. Yondu shares the occasional frenzied rut with all the trusted Alphas under his command - it’s a way of dissolving tensions, keeping operations running smoothly. Similarly, Peter makes pit-stops at every port along the galleon’s route, luring barmaids into his bed with his raunchy smile and the allure of the patch on his arm. It’s all physical; only about sensation. No finnicky _emotions_ involved. But right now, Yondu and Peter have exceeded the bounds of a casual relationship. They’re mated. And this is all a little too real, a little too scary.

When Yondu stops grinding on his erection and hooks his calves over Peter’s forearms, cushioned by the buoyant water, and makes to fuck himself on it instead, Peter puts steadying hands on his hips. “Last time, remember.”

Yondu gapes at him. “I was kiddin’!”

“I wasn’t.”

“But we’re mates!” As if he doesn’t know. His cock is a throbbing reminder, the pulse in his belly like the engine of an M-ship in first gear. It urges him to restake his claim. Grab Yondu’s scruff between his teeth. Wrestle him down, bite him, pin him, treat him like an animal instead of a man. Is this what mating does to Alpha-Omega couples? Peter has enough self-awareness to be disgusted - but if Yondu keeps grinding on him, that won’t last long. Yondu himself is either oblivious, or enjoying Peter’s thoughts far too much. What was it he’d said? That it felt like he was drowning? Too much spillover into his own head? Peter’s unsure of the limits on their bond. But whatever Yondu’s receiving from Peter’s mind, he’s liking it.

“C’mon,” he grunts, rocking back and forth. “You gotta want to fuck me. It’s like… a goddam biological imperative, or some shit.” The wet slit of his pussy grazes Peter’s cockhead. It hovers there, only a centimeter above the waterline. The air’s so humid that Peter can barely tell the beading slick apart from the atmosphere. And yet there’s something there, an ineffable sense of _connection,_ that informs him the moisture he feels isn’t just water. As if the hormones in Yondu’s slick have seeped through his skin, churning round his body in time with the hammer of his heart.

Peter bites down on the whine. He jerks, just enough to part the folds, making the both of them shiver. Yondu’s is followed by a grimace. He hooks an arm around Peter’s neck, squatted over him, fisting his hair for balance. “Speakin’ of, I gotta talk to Doc about birth control. Dunno if it even _works_ for mated couples. If I want yer bite on my neck I want yer pup in my belly less.”

“Gee thanks, you old flatterer.” He’s not really offended; he knows what Yondu means. Even though the thought – Yondu swollen around their child, sat imperiously on his captain’s chair and ordering Peter to rub his feet – makes a primal part of him purr, the real Peter - the Peter whose actions aren’t decided by his dick - wants that eventuality about as much as Yondu does. They’ve perverted their relationship enough already. If you don’t sleep with your mentor-slash-substitute-father, you certainly don’t knock him up. Peter only wishes his cock was as easy to convince. “That’s a good reason not to fuck, right? Look. If you’re horny, I’ll get you off. But no dicks in holes. Too sore, for one thing.”

“Not at all?” Yondu’s incredulity tinges with humor. “What about this one?” He opens his mouth like he’s visiting the dentist, showing off every cracked molar. “Or this one?” Index finger and thumb make a neat ring, not nearly the circumference of Peter’s cock – but he gets the gist. He’s about to tell Yondu so when his captain spins around on his lap, waves sloshing up Peter’s torso, and rocks down so Peter’s shaft splits between his buttocks, cruelly grinding over bruised knot-tissue. “Or this one?”

He’s put his bite under Peter’s nose. It rests on his chin, ragged edge brushing the stubble. Unthinking? Possibly. Yondu’s only been sporting it a day and a half. But Peter wouldn’t put any trick past him. Especially not while the captain’s so greedy; kneeling in the water, growl hitching as he rubs his asshole over Peter’s deflated knot.

Peter breathes through his mouth, siphoning hot lungfuls of humid air. He shuts his eyes, trying to concentrate on the knobbly rock beneath him, the spit of fire overhead; anything but _that smell…_

“You’ve made your point.” His voice cracks a full octave deeper than usual. Fingers dig into Yondu’s hips, above the bruises from last time he’d pinned him. He holds him tight to Peter’s fattening prick, even as he says: “Now get off me.”

Yondu _moans._ A tough, bratty Omega he might be, but there’s an Alpha driven almost-to-rut behind him. Some instincts run deeper than consciousness. He tries to glare at Peter, to reclaim the power that comes from looking rather than being the object of a gaze. But Peter doesn’t release him. His grip tightens until Yondu’s hipbones creak. Biceps straining, he lifts Yondu until his prick skids under him, nestling against the velvet-soft mound. Then, veins bulging with the effort, starts to bounce him. There’s no penetration. But it sits on the cusp: water slops and sloshes as his cockhead digs, shallow and infuriating, never with enough pressure to breach.

“Don’t seem like you want me off ya.” Yondu wriggles from side to side, legs flexing wider even as he tests Peter’s hold. It stays strong. Peter doesn’t retreat an inch. In fact, he pulls Yondu’s back closer to his chest and _snarls_ in his ear, snarls like a beast. “Huh. Did ya mean to say ‘get me off’? Cause I can do that. Just lemme turn around. Wanna ride ya properly, maybe shove that stupid face underwater until you feel like yer drownin’ too…”

“Are you in heat?” growls Peter. He inhales noisily as Yondu freezes. His nose – cooler than the rest of him, but only by a few degrees – digs into the base of his implant, breath breaking over the still-raw bite. His cock bucks, nipping Yondu’s clit and inciting a full-body quiver. His pulse pounds between his legs and Yondu’s races to match it.

“Nah, don’t be stupid. I’m twenty years older than ya, idiot. Omegas my age are lucky if we get a biyearly heat – I ain’t due that for another twelve months, and I’m on scent-suppressants so ya wouldn’t smell it anyway. And. Uh. Quill.”

Peter’s trembling. His whole body shakes with the restrained urge to thrust, cockhead skidding about in the slick that webs Yondu’s throbbing puss. Yondu would usually relish it; having an Alpha trapped under him, shaking as he takes what Yondu gives. But the odd synergy in his skull – that faint but pressing meld of minds, feeding from the bite mark – indicates that Peter isn’t warring against his own pleasure.

He’s trying not to cry.

Aw, hell. That’s something Yondu can’t abide.

“Quill,” he says, seriously - as seriously as he can manage when there’s an Alpha-cock poised under him, ready for the riding. He tugs at the fingers crushing his pelvis. “Quill, ya don’t gotta do this if you don’t want to…”

Quill’s big, dumb, aggrieved face peers at him from over Yondu’s bunched shoulder. His cheeks are streaky with ash and dirt, like mascara-tears on a woman. And dammit, if Yondu’d wanted one of those he’d have mated one. “I want to! But I really, really don’t!”

It’s the damn bite. Of course it is. The boy doesn’t have the strength to resist, and now his body’s doing one thing and his mind another. Being trapped in a body that tries to present itself to any jackass sporting an Alpha-knot sucks. Having your body take control and fuck another person without your consent is similar enough for Yondu to feel empathy. He plucks Quill’s thumbs, willing himself not to imagine those same thumbs spreading him open, one propped on either side of his pussy, teasing that elastic hole wide enough to take Quill’s meat.

“Lemme go then. Just to the other side of the pool. See if ya still wanna be inside me, once we’ve got this pesky thing…” He taps the bite. “Out from under yer nose.”

“Uh-huh. Good plan. Yup, right away.” Peter doesn’t let go though. It’s as if his hands have petrified, conforming to the thick shape of Yondu’s waist, holding him still even as Yondu tries to extract himself. The captain squirms over his lap, slowly at first to avoid exciting him. Then, when that doesn’t work, faster - a writhe for freedom that Peter instinctively disarms, arms looping Yondu’s torso in a solid lock. He can’t help it. The need to _catch_ and _take_ isn’t one he’s felt before, but it surges to life the moment he thinks Yondu’s running, more potent than any drug. This close Peter can smell him as well as the pool - leather on sulphur, Ravager on broiling rock. And he can smell the mark too. _His_ mark, his claim. It pronounces to the universe just who Yondu belongs to. But, in Peter’s hazy, horny mind, it could do with enhancing.

His jaws unstick of their own accord. Drool sluices between, and Yondu must feel the soggy pant of breath over his nape because his expression contorts; a whip-snap shift from humor to rage.

“Fuckin’ hell, boy. Leggo of me. Now.”

“I, I am _trying -”_

“Well _try fucking harder._ Don’tchu be all hot an’ cold - just say you wanna fuck and we’ll fuck, or let go of me already. Ain’t got the patience for this lame teenager shit.” His nails dig into the backs of Peter’s hands. Blood wells, diluting as it enters the milky froth of water, disturbed by their thrashing. Peter wants to remind Yondu that he isn’t a teenager anymore - hasn’t been in some time, actually. But words fail him. His cock hurts. It’s been aching the whole damn time, like someone pinched it with a pair of pliers and _stretched._ Everything feels disconcertingly _baggy_ down there. While Peter’s turbulent hormones inform him he can pop a knot, if Yondu will only supply some friction, Peter’s afraid of what might rip.

And yet he can’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” is all he manages. He’s said that a lot recently. From the scoff, Yondu’s sick of it.

“One last chance, kid. Get yerself under some damn control.” Easy for him to say. He’s not nose-to-bitemark with an Omega. And even if he was, it wouldn’t mean a thing - not like it does to Peter, whose pulse palpitates visibly in his throat and whose swallows become drier and drier despite the humidity of the air, as he wills himself to release Yondu. Yondu helps as best he can. When gouging Peter doesn’t work, leaving long scratches that clot the hairs on his forearm with blood, he turns to other tactics. The whistle splits the bassy rumbles of the volcano, as molten rock squeezes through fissures in Morag’s crust. It’s high and sweet. Peter doesn’t pay it much attention though - he’s too busy craning backwards. An enforced arrow’s length of space opens between his chest and Yondu’s scarred back.

“There ya go boy,” growls Yondu, wrenching away to stand. Water sloshes around his calves. The ripples break against Peter’s pectorals. His hands reach for blue skin without his permission, honing on the dripping slice between Yondu’s legs. They’re slapped away. “Now you can sit on yer lonesome until you’ve cooled your head. Goddit?” Without further conversation, arguing, or even eye contact, Yondu stomps through the shallows. He wades in a low lope until the water crests his thighs, then his stomach, then his pouch and nipples, condensation and sweat slicking his sternum. Steam billows. Peter squints until his eyes hurt, but Yondu remains a shadow, only his face above the waterline, smell of his cunt obscured by the reek of natural gas while the glow from his implant is lost against the backlight of the volcano. It’s not right, having him so far away. But if Peter closes that distance, he fears he’ll only make things worse.

“We need to get this fixed,” he whispers. His captain’s head, wreathed in sulfurous clouds, inclines in a nod.

 

* * *

 

How though? That’s the rub.

In the end, Yondu and Peter sit until their skin threatens to melt from their bones - potentially literally, seeing as they hadn’t tested this pool’s alkali content before hopping in. Once Peter’s wrinkled as a newborn and about as watery-eyed - whatever’s in this steam, it’s not kind to Terran pH-levels - he decides enough is enough. Dissolving into sodden blue-and-pink lumps won’t solve anything. Floundering upright, he balls his fists and screws the knuckles into his stinging eyes until his wobbling vision coalesces on Yondu’s submerged form.

“You drowned, or what?”

“You wish, boy.” While he doesn’t give into the urge to breathe out and sink to the bottom of the pool, Yondu doesn’t sound as exuberant as normal. He doesn’t bounce upright and splash Peter, or toss foul-smelling water at him and try and pester him into a wrestling match. Perhaps it’s because he knows that wrestling match would invariably become something else. Perhaps he doesn’t trust Peter to hold himself back around him anymore - or he doesn’t trust himself to say no. His suspicions are more than warranted, on all counts. The past few hours have proven that.

Peter sighs. “C’mon. Back to ship. We can brainstorm there.”

Yondu sinks lower, blowing sulky bubbles. Peter hopes he’s smart enough not to swallow. “Ship stinks like Count’s gut flora.”

“And this pool reeks of rotten egg. Lesser of two evils?” When not even that makes Yondu’s shoulders break the surface, Peter loses patience.This occurs regularly - whenever he and Yondu are in the same room for more than five minutes, in fact. But it’s a rare day indeed when Peter actually takes his frustrations out on his captain. Even now, Peter wouldn’t dare pelt Yondu with pebbles from the poolside until he quits trying to dissolve himself. He settles for a threat instead. “Listen. You can get out and come back to the ship with me. Or I can march over there and haul you up by your fucking armpits. I’m totally big enough to carry you about now, you goddam shortass, so don’t think I won’t put it into practice.”

Another whistle. A loud squeak, followed by a splash as Peter’s toes lose their grip on the slippery pool bottom and he crashes face-first into the water, arrow still flying rings around him like a pissed-off wasp.

“Jackass!” he sputters once he’s come up for air, scraping his drenched fringe off his forehead. But Yondu’s laughing, for what feels like the first time all day. Peter supposes he can forgive him. Just this once.

By the time they make it back to the ship, the sky is black and bulging with storm clouds. The ash plumes from the volcanoes are lit from within, fire and lightning crackling louder than taser rods. Yondu leads the way, as he usually does. He hasn’t bothered to slough off the water. Not wanting to get his coat damp, he’s striding along in pants and boots, underjacket bundled under one arm. Peter watches his back, memorizing each lash-mark and laceration and the imprints left by his own teeth, as well as the longest scar, which cuts Yondu lengthways like he’s been strapped down and vivisectioned on a mad scientist’s operation table. Peter tugs on his own shirt as he walks, not wanting to suffer the sizzle of superheated soot on his skin. If the miniature burns bother him, Yondu doesn’t show it.

“So?” Peter asks as they march into the hold. “Where to now, boss? Back to the _Eclector?_ ” He’s never gotten into the habit of calling the Ravager galleon home. But he supposes that for Yondu, it’s the closest he’s got. If the old git’s remembers much of his original planet, he sure doesn’t like to talk about it. It’s easier for Peter to imagine Yondu as a permanent figure on board the armada flagship: born amid the clanking engines and the triple-thrum of the hyperdrive, weaned on whiskey, reared to the hiss of steam through ancient valves and the mosquito-like flit of M-ships through the hangars. Yondu hums in answer, holding his trenchcoat out in front of him and rootling through the grubby pockets. Once he’s found what he’s looking for - a small plastic bottle and a packet of pills, both unadorned and label-less - he squirts his neck, chomps two capsules, and sniffs himself, not bothering with discretion. He quests for _Omega_ , under the combined forces of artificial Alpha-musk and scent-suppressant. It’s tempting to go over and help. But Peter’s maintained a careful five meters of space between them since they left the pool, taking note of how his pulse revs and his knot throbs at Yondu’s proximity. Better he let Yondu deal with this alone. Which he soon does. It takes three more squirts and another pill, swallowed dry. But once satisfied his little secret won’t be broadcast throughout his crew as soon as he sets foot on the _Eclector_ , Yondu nods decisively and stalks for the cockpit, looking every bit the captain he is.

“Hell yeah. And don’t you run off nowhere after we land, boy. We got us a date with the Doc.”

 

* * *

 

To say Doc Mijo is unamused is an understatement. “You what,” she says flatly, her three eyes thinned to slits. “You’re messing with me. Right, boss?”

Yondu sidles up, slinging his arm over her shoulders. It’d be too close for comfort for any species, especially one listed on the Planetary Registry as having a loci of two meters reserved for personal space. From his smirk, Yondu’s well aware. He leers in her face. “Trust me darlin’, when I say ‘I wish’.”

Mijo amends his manners, ramming the sharp tip of her cane under his toecap. She smirks at the yelp and the wounded glare. No whistle follows though - not like it would have done had any other crewmember showed him such disrespect. Intergalactic Practitioners Degrees are rare to come by, out in the boondocks of the Andromeda Galaxy. Much less those attached to people who are both unaffiliated with an Empire and not _too_ prone to hacking off bits that don’t need to be hacked (Yondu’d worked his way through five doctors and several crewmembers’ limbs before he worked that last one out.) No, Mijo is a good egg. A tough cookie. A whole bunch of other metaphors he can’t be bothered to think of right now. She’s smart enough to be scared of him, when he’s in a bad mood; brave enough to backtalk; sure enough in her own importance to proclaim her rule over the medbay and tell him when he needs to quit yapping and _listen_ . Yondu would even go as far as to say he _likes her._

Most importantly though, she’s trustworthy. Only person on board besides his regulars on Bridge who know what's between his legs. So, while Quill is busy doing an impression of one of them red fruits he’d always whinged for at the markets when he was a kid - ‘to-may-toes’ or ‘to-mah-toes’; something like that - Yondu hops onto Mijo’s table and spreads ‘em.

“First off,” he says, crunching up to peer at Mijo from between his wide-splayed knees, “you can tell me why this baby ain’t been washed out with the bathwater.” He taps beneath his balls, where the zipper digs into the groove of his cunt. Damn thing should've sealed up hours ago. He’s prepared for the pleasure, but that doesn’t stop the delicious little startle as nerve endings flare. Dammit. _Something_ must be leaking. If not slick, then pheromones. Because out of the corner of his eye, Yondu notices the tension in Quill’s posture, hears the low rumble of a snarl that rises up his throat as Mijo approaches, cane clicking on the non-stick floor-slats. And hell, he really don’t want to lose his medic.

Yondu holds up a hand, eyes warning. Mijo appears unconcerned. She completes her advance, settling on the chair besides the bed with the moan of one who has spent far too long on legs already in poor condition. How had her knee been injured again? Yondu can’t remember, but knowing him it was probably his fault. Luckily, forsaking your conscience is one of the first tricks Ravager Admirals learn. Yondu consoles himself with the fact that Mijo can hobble at a fair old pace, and that he’s repaid her loyalty several times over in booze, a pension account rivalled only by his own and Kraglin’s, and a steady supply of Corpsmen-that-won’t-be-missed for when those slicey ‘n’ dicey urges get too strong to ignore.

“I’m a Beta,” she explains. “Freshly-mated Alphas are territorial, sure - but he should be able to restrain himself from attacking. Except when another Alpha gets too up-close-and-personal, in which case…” She trails off. No elaboration is needed. Yondu’s seen enough Alpha grudge-matches to know that being an Omega has its bonuses, once you get past the whole ‘seen as a sentient fucktoy by half the species in the galaxy’ shtick. For one, you don’t automatically try to gnaw off the face of anyone who looks at what you’ve claimed as yours. Of course, it goes without saying that if you touch Yondu’s stuff he’ll kill you - but he’ll at least have the decency to put an arrow through your eyes, quick and clean. None of this growling and grunting and rolling about in your own blood. Watching fights from a distance might get his boxers moist, but Yondu’d rather keep his hands clean while he’s captaining. Relatively speaking, of course.  

“Unless,” continues Mijo, bright and breezy as she whips a speculum out of her pocket. It looks a lil’ rust-tinted, but Yondu’s had less hygienic things rammed up there. “You get your dumb blue ass knocked up. Then he’ll go for anyone he perceives as a threat - which means anyone who looks at you sideways, Alpha, Beta and Omega alike. Only option then’s to dose both you idjits to your gills on drugs which, quite frankly, I don’t keep in stock.”

“Ya don’t? What about my Blockers? An’ Suppressants, and shit?” Omega Blockers stop him from crawling ass-up to every Alpha on deck. Most Omegas take ‘em, unless they’re in cushy lodgings with a big strong mate, or they belong to a bordello that specializes in the Genuine Dynamic-Triumvirate Experience. All species react to them differently - some don’t even grow a cunt when they smell an Alpha in rut. Yondu ain’t among that lucky number. But he’ll settle for reducing the number, duration and intensity of his heats where he can. Scent-suppressants are equally important. When he does go into season, his Bridge crew don’t have to suffer through smelling it while knowing he’ll whistle if anyone tries to bend him over his chair. But Mijo’s shaking her head.

“No, no! Not at all. We’re talking different compounds, different dosages… Anyway, I’m not an Empire pharmacy. What we’ve got, we have to steal.”

Yondu knows this; he’s the dumb shit tasked with stealing it. He and Mijo’ve known each other long enough that he doesn’t quibble the requests pinged to his pad from the medbay. Doesn’t even begrudge her the few pots of painkillers that get lost between the hangar bay and the storage hold. A happy doctor’s a good doctor; a good doctor means a crew with zero unnecessary amputations, and a crew with zero unnecessary amputations is fifteen percent less likely to mutiny (he’d had Kraglin run the algorithm once, out of curiosity). But if that’s the only problem, there’s an easy enough solution. Yondu lounges, lacing his fingers behind his head, and yawns wide enough to pop his jaw.

“So we steal some. No biggie.”

“Not that simple I’m afraid.” Mijo props her cane on the bedside. Then, making the most of Yondu’s attention being elsewhere - namely on the crosshatch of dirty grills set into the medbay ceiling; should really give this place a spring clean, unless he wants half the crew to die of gangrene next time a raid goes wrong - she yanks down his zipper. Yondu blinks.

“Huh. Drafty.”

“Wouldn’t be if you let me turn on the heating more than once a fortnight, sir. Now, I can’t just let you go gobbling whatever hormones you get your mitts on first.” A rustle, a shift of settling fabric. Then cold metal, splitting the seam of his cunt without pushing in, smeared liberally with medical-grade slick. “You and Peter are both from Silver Spiral planets - neither of them contacted, at that. Don’t got none of your files on spec. And that means medication is a very, very bad idea - until I've determined exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“I can tell ya what we’re dealin’ with, woman!” He ain’t being excessively grumpy because he’s on his back with a pair of pliers wedged where the sun don't shine. He _ain’t._ Yondu’s a big boy. Compared to the anaesthetic-free abdominal surgery he’d undergone, after that time he took a Kree warblade to the pouch and had to stagger back to ship cradling an armful of still-steaming small intestine, this is a walk in the freaking park. “It’s called: that big galoot over there bitin’ my neck while we was fuckin’!”

That big galoot is projecting fear, shame, and annoyance that someone besides him has access to Yondu’s cunt. But Yondu doesn’t want to think about that. There are precious few places in the galaxy he would rather be less than inside Peter’s head - although flat out on a cold pallet with Mijo frowning at his netherbits qualifies. Speaking of… Frowns rarely mean good news in these sorts of situations. Peter better not have given him the clap. Yondu wriggles up on his elbows, forcing a smirk. “‘Sup, honeybunch? I grown teeth down there’?”

Mijo shakes her head. She places the speculum in the everpresent bowl of antiseptic. It looks a bit scummy, like it might’ve been used for the last few appointments too, but compared to the ship’s general water supply it’s practically pristine. Once they’re doused, Mijo sits back, stretching out her bad leg with a wince. “You have bruising,” she says. Her gaze is a probe, taking in far more than it reveals. “More bruising than I’d expect from any mating. Unless, of course, the copulation was non-consensual.”

Ugh. There go Quill’s hyperactive emotions again. More agitation, more anguish, and a helluva lot more shame; scoop after scoop of it, so much that Yondu’s amazed the kid hasn’t crumpled to the floor, a wailing wreck. He shoots him an eye-roll, just to let him know the attention-seeking isn’t cute. Then turns back to Mijo, directing his lie to her face: “Oh yeah. Told him to go rough on me. Told him I could take it. More fool me, huh?”

“Hm.” Mijo doesn’t look convinced. But she’s decided speculums are a shoddy idea - for which Yondu’s puffy vulva is eternally grateful. She slicks up one finger instead, tentatively testing the outer lips and watching Yondu’s face for any hint of a flinch before gliding it inside. “I can give you something, if it hurts.”

“Nah. M’fine - had worse.” It’s true. A bruised pussy ranks very low on Yondu’s pain threshold. But that doesn’t mean it’s all sunshine and roses as Mijo makes a quick and professional circuit of his insides, pressing on the walls before extracting herself to check for blood. By the end of it, Yondu’s knuckles are standing out against his blue hide, clenched to white.

Mijo completes her examination as fast as she can while still taking due care. Once finished she twists her fingers to loose them - and says nothing at the quiver that runs along the tendons joining Yondu’s inner thighs. Wise girl. “You haven’t torn, at least. It’ll hurt to walk, sit, everything for a couple of days - but no worse than after any other hard fuck. You’ll be fine.”

That’s something. Yondu nods, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then sharply retakes it when Mijo crooks her gloved fingers, still shiny with artificial lubricant, at Quill.  Fuck knows why he’s still here. Ain’t as if Yondu’s ordered him to stick around. The Terran lurks by the door, where a glitching bulb leaves a well of shadow. His shock of ginger hair is all that differentiates him from the darkness. Certainly, his mood doesn’t. All Yondu can glean from him now is bleakness, of the sort that usually precedes the kid performing a disappearing act: finding a quiet vent to hole up in, where he can blast his music until he’s ready to face the galaxy. If the _Eclector_ even has any vents left capable of housing Quill’s bulk, that is. His boy’s grown up well. Big, strong, Alpha - everything a captain could want.

Yondu nurtures a burst of pride - one that’s not as rare as he’d have Quill believe. It ebbs pretty rapidly though, as he remembers Quill’s now his mate. He’s not allowed to forget it either, because next moment Mijo’s calling: “Oi, Quill! Get over here. I need to test the captain’s slick.”

“The hell you talkin’ bout, woman?” Yondu tries to close his legs. He discovers them to be trapped, locked wide beneath the surprising weight of Mijo’s slender palm.

“Calm down; it’s standard procedure -”

“Like Thanos’s Ballsack it is! You ain’t never done that before -”

“Because you’ve never risked pregnancy before! Because I thought you were smarter than this!” There’s an ugly pause. In it, Mijo notes how Yondu’s expression is fluxing between shock and anger, and hastily amends herself, giving the thigh she’s gripping an awkward pat. “With all due respect, sir, I’m used to patching you up after you let Kraglin go full-feral on your ass. This is a little beyond your usual stunts - that’s all I meant.”

Yondu can’t look at Quill, not even as the big guy stalks closer, pink hands clutching the front of his jacket to stop himself reaching out. “Thought you said,” he says hoarsely, as Quill’s pheromones saturate, “that he’d go full-loco if I was preggers.”

“Not immediately. Even if he popped his bun in your oven three days ago - it was three days ago, right? You’ll still give off ‘mate in need of fucking’ pheromones rather than ‘mate in need of protection’ pheromones. At least for the first month - gives your body time to adjust, prepare, make sure the baby’s here to stay.” Certainly, Mijo doesn’t fear for her life. She nods Quill closer, close enough that Yondu’s pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, hungry to drag more of that intoxicating scent in. Alpha. _His_ Alpha…

He doesn’t notice when his legs fall wider, muscle going slack under Mijo’s palm. His knees are weighed down by the bulky shinpads, and he couldn’t close them even if he wanted to. A raspy-soft noise pushes from his throat, one that’s half-pleading, half-yearning, and all-Omega. It’s most decidedly _not_ Ravager. Yondu wishes he could shove it back down his throat as soon as he hears it - especially when Quill stiffens, lust flooding through their one-sided neural connection. So _much_ of it. Lust, desire, greed - all those proud Ravager qualities Yondu’s struggled to make stick in Peter’s fool-Terran head, now directed at his battered old puss. The attention’d usually have him laughing, splaying wide, giving him a show - because Yondu’s anything but shy, especially around someone who’s been inside him more times than he’s flown solo. But right now, it’s all he can do not to whine. His cunt _throbs,_ hot and needy and sore. Bruises or no bruises, he wants Quill inside him. He wants his Alpha, _now…_

Mijo shoves Quill away. Follows it up with a punch when Quill growls and makes to elbow her out the way and crawl on top of the table that holds his mate at mountable height. “And that’s enough, I think. Congrats, kiddo. You got him wet without touching him - means the bond’s strong.”

That’s a bad thing, right? Strong bond means harder to break. But as Mijo returns, this time armed with a swab that mops the sweet-smelling leakage from his hole, Yondu’s brain does its utmost to convince him that’s very, very good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I got this one up faster than I thought! Thanks to kragsyondu on tumblr for the motivation. You're awesome, bud.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu and Quill are given an ultimatum, and disrupt poor Zqo's sleep.**

“So,” says Yondu. His voice scratches in the base of in his chest - although that’s Quill’s fault, who has parked his ass close enough to make Yondu’s thighs rub. The scent caresses his nose, dizzyingly pungent, indescribable to anyone but an Omega. If he had to try, he’d probably say some fruity shit better suited to Xandarian poets, like _Peter smells of the jungle_ and _Peter smells of sex and safe and home_. Yondu has to turn his face to the side and breathe through his mouth so as not to be overwhelmed. Feeling like you’re drowning under a rush of yucky emotions-that-don’t-belong-to-you is one thing; being smothered by an Alpha’s stink quite another. For one thing, it’s a helluva lot more arousing. “How d’we fix this.”

“Well.” Mijo busies herself packing her equipment into lil’ notches and crannies, which line the fortified medbay wall like pockmarks in a plague victim. “Ain’t that the question for the ages?”

Yondu scoffs. Beneath his zipped-up pants, his pussy’s leaking slick, oily and thick, keeping him prepped and tingling, ready for a fuck. And it’s all for Peter. “Don’t be cute.”

Peter takes over before he can start yelling. He leans forwards - unwittingly stirring the air, wafting more of his damn sexy scent up Yondu’s nostrils. But Yondu can’t bring himself to shove the kid back, not when there’s such earnest hope on his face. “There’s gotta be a way! We can’t be the first couple in history to y’know. Tie the knot without meaning to.” Which is an apt metaphor, all things considered.

Mijo sighs. “There’s nothing mandated by the Intergalactic Medical Commission, other than abstinence until the bond fades of its own accord.”

That’s okay. Yondu can take going without for a coupla days - even weeks, if necessary. “How long for?” he asks. He’s already relaxing, tension easing from the tendons in his arms. This’ll be over in no time. Then he and Quill can go back to normal - an earlier iteration of normal, from before they started boning each other at every available opportunity. He can shack up with Kraglin, Czar and Isla when they’re in the mood. Quill can haul girls home and bang ‘em in various positions all over Yondu’s ship. Yondu can yell at him for banging ‘em in various positions all over his ship. It’ll be perfect.

Mijo studies her scalpel, flicking rust off the tip. Then shrugs and drops it into the pocket of her filthy labcoat. “Decade’d do it.”

Peter has to grab Yondu to stop him keeling over. “What the…?”

“Yeah. This…” A hand, waved between them, elucidates what ‘this’ refers to. “It’s pretty damn potent. You want a permanent fix? No more fucking. Between you or anyone else. You’re lucky the mark’s one-way - makes things easier.” Although Yondu doesn’t miss how that’s directed to Quill, not him. “Peter, I’m afraid you’ll have to be the voice of reason here. Captain’s going to get mighty desperate - especially over the upcoming weeks. Think you can handle saying no?”

Quill shifts, wide-load ass denting the memory foam. He peeps at Yondu out the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid he’s gonna snap and whistle at any moment, obliterate all his problems with an easy purse-of-the-lips and a blow. “If he’ll listen…”

Scowling, Yondu turns to face him. Then regrets it. He catches a noseful of musk and his pussy pulses, squeezing out so much hot slick it must be dampening the seat of his pants. He resists the urge to shove a hand down there and mop up. He glowers at Quill instead, prodding his chest. “Hey now. I ain’t no rapist.”

If he can smell Quill, Quill can smell him. The brat’s pupils eat the blue of his eyes as his gaze treks to Yondu’s crotch, slow as if against his will. “Damn, captain,” he breathes. He shifts forwards, one arm curling around Yondu’s waist while the other makes to push his legs apart, drag him to straddle him, do a million and one things that Yondu’s practically gagging for. “You smell so fucking good…”

The cane whaps his shin. Then, when that doesn’t get his attention, his cheek. Peter reels back, gasping, clutching the slice that splits his stubble. “Ow!”

“No getting frisky in my medbay,” Mijo growls. She levels her cane at Peter, careful not to glance at Yondu in case that’s perceived as a threat. Wouldn’t want any murders in the medbay either. “No getting frisky at all, in fact. You, young man, need to stay away from him. Because trust me, he’s gonna have a hard time staying away from you. Now, the first month will be the hardest. But if you keep a safe distance - a lot further than this!” The cane whaps between them again, striking Quill’s knuckles as he makes to crawl back towards Yondu, pick him up like a doll and sit him on his cock. “The both of you should be able to keep your heads. I’ll pull some favors, consult some old contacts, see if any of them have information. But until I’ve gathered enough to cook up a medically safe alternative to abstinence, you two are on your own. No talking. No eye contact. Strictly no frotting or fondling -”

Yondu pulls a face. “Fondlin’? Seriously…”

“-Because while you might think it’s just rubbing off to relieve tension, I guarantee it won’t end that way. It’ll end with you,” (she points at Yondu, who crosses his arms and sneers) “flat on your back with your goddam legs in the air and you,” (her index finger swings round to jab at Quill instead) “fucking away between them. And then he _will_ get pregnant, if he’s not already, and this whole mess’ll only get messier. Got it?”

Yondu doesn’t like taking orders. Not on Bridge, not in the bedroom, not anywhere. But in a medical context? Especially one that’ll protect his future, his rep, and his status as the most badass man on board, regardless of whether he forms a juicy lil puss whenever he smells an Alpha in rut? He can clamp down on his pride, at least long enough to nod.

Surprisingly, Peter’s the one to protest. “So what’m I supposed to do? Jerk it?”

Mijo’s smile turns ghoulish. “Oh yes. I’m expecting to see the both of you back here with RSI by the end of the day-cycle. Just don’t go sticking it in - or taking it from - anyone else, do you hear? Captain, you’ve heard about what can happen to mated Omegas who take unmated Alpha cock. Quill, the one way mind-bond means he’ll be able to tell if you’re fucking another person on the sly. So unless you want a pissed off boss whistling down your door, you’ll keep it in your pants. And…” She leans forwards, conspiratorial and sly. “As a doctor, it’s my recommendation that the both of you fools swing by a toy shop next time we make port.”

That’s a whole week from now. Yondu assesses his hand, curled into a fist from the effort of not plucking Quill’s sleeve, fisting his hair, dragging his dumb Terran face down between his legs to where he needs to feel the rough rake of stubble most. He bids goodbye to his wrist-tendons.

“Awright,” he growls, creaking to stand - then freezes at the little gush. Fluid slips down his inner thighs. From the way Peter’s breath catches in his throat, he can smell the aromatic tang, see the seeping stain. Yondu forces himself to move through willpower alone. He shucks on his coat in fast, agitated motions, as wet leather rubs and pinches. “How’m I gonna stop myself stinkin’ like a bitch?”

Mijo, bless her, doesn’t give him none of that politically-correct twaddle about Appropriate Terminology for Addressing Omegas. Just sighs and blinks all five of her eyes, gaze thinned in what could be pity on a more humanoid face. “It’s gonna be difficult. Most of the Bridge crew already know about…”

“Me gettin’ wet once every two years and prayin’ they trip and accidentally fall in me? Yeah. There’s a few newer brats I’d rather keep it from though. And the rest of the crew - Taserface and Half-Nut an’ the like.” Assholes who mime fucking Omegas over the canteen tables without a care for who sees.

Mijo pulls a palm-held data device from another pocket - how many of those can a labcoat hold? She jots down a note. “I’ll stock you up on Scent-Suppressants then. Blockers aren’t gonna be of much use. You can pop as many pills as you like, but you’re going to be feeling this heat until you either get fucked full of brats or it dies down of its own accord.”

“Yeah,” says Yondu, pulling at his collar until it covers his blotchy, navy-flushed neck. “I figured.”

He dismisses her with a nod and stalks out, not bothering to check if Quill’s following. That’d kinda defeat the point of staying away from him, wouldn’t it? He’ll get Kraglin to source some suitably tedious offship job for the brat, as punishment for getting them into this dumbass situation. Quill won’t even be able to complain. He’s always bitching about never being sent on solos - well, now’s his chance to shine. Maybe Yondu’ll have him hunt down every jackass who’s been unfortunate enough to get themselves into the Ravagers’ debt over the past year-cycle, and have Quill squeeze ‘em for cash. Maybe he’ll get him to steal something finnicky and pointless from someone too rich to care. Maybe he’ll make him give every M-ship in Yondu’s fleet the full wax ‘n’ polish spa-treatment. One thing is for certain; whatever Peter’s assigned it’s gonna be gruelling, discomforting, and far away from Yondu.

 

* * *

 

His avoidance of Quill lasts all of twenty four hours. Next morning he stomps onto Bridge, sour mood unalleviated by the eight orgasms he’d worked himself through before flopping facefirst into his nest in exhausted, oversensitized defeat. The brat’s waiting for him, assignment-pad held in an outstretched hand.

A stiff-looking outstretched hand.

Yondu smirks at it, noting how Peter’s fingers keep trying to cramp around the approximate girth of his dick. At least he’s not the only frustrated sod. How can he cum eight times and still be horny? Sure, the pussy enables multiple orgasms, and the barrage of Quill’s emotions (which dampen except in times of sudden stress; times that are infinitely exacerbated by Yondu’s presence) serves to remind him that at least one idiot in this galaxy still finds him attractive. But for a guy his age, eight in a night is darn impressive. He plucks the pad from Quill’s grip, slouching to his chair. His clit is a stinging needlepoint. It jabs him over and over, pinching with each roll of his hips. Between the limp, the scowl, and the baggy blue-bloodshot eyes, the Bridge is probably assuming he’s hungover and freshly fucked - a combination that usually winds up with someone being hurled out an airlock. A lower-ranking crewmember, if they’re lucky. Still, they’ve borne the brunt of Yondu’s temper often enough to know when to keep their heads down. Not even Kraglin has any wisecracks to toss his way.

Yondu’s almost disappointed. He was looking forwards to killing something.

He slings himself onto his throne - or rather, folds gingerly to sit. Then circles his hand for Peter to fall in besides. “Wassup?”

No talk of what’s happened. Yondu’d like to keep it that way. He’s all dosed up on his Suppressants - to the point of pungency, if the raised eyebrows and coughs from Czar and Isla, who’re mapping charts on his other side, are any indication. Peter isn’t exempt. Yondu notices him trying to crane away, get his head out of that fug of virile male-Alpha-ready-to-knot that Yondu’s as good as wallowing in. Yondu sniggers to himself. Secure that his broad chairback is hiding him, he squirts the little bottle over his wrists and rubs vigorously, like a lady applying perfume.

Quill gags. Yondu’s never heard a sweeter sound. “Aren’t you overdoing it?”

“Overdoing what?”

A frustrated huff, a pout. “Nothing. Sir, look. I thought the idea was that we avoided each other.”

Oh. That. Advice from Mijo, a galactic-class General Practitioner with three swanky diplomas to show for it (and one very stern letter of dismissal for performing unnecessary operations on people she didn’t like). Yondu grimaces. Quill’s probably wondering why his next assignment is to the Eclector gunrigs, rather than the far-flung reaches of the outer rim. “I figured there ain’t much challenge in that. This way’s more fun.”

Or less painful. He’d considered his options during the night - in between stroking apart the lips of his cunt, draining the puddled slick, cussing his stupid Omega body and Peter’s stupid Alpha bite to Titan Crag and back again. But while his thumb had spent ten whole minutes hovering over the button that would delegate Quill to the fleet for Mijo’s recommended decade - ten minutes where that thumb could’ve been doing something more productive, like circling his clit or helping pin his soft cock out the way so he could finger himself properly - the thought of being so far removed from Quill made something catch and tug in his chest. Something that felt suspiciously heart-shaped.

It would’ve been easy to blame on the heat. Yondu’d even managed to convince himself of that, for all of an hour in the dead of the night cycle, when the ship lay dead and silent as an unterraformed asteroid, the only sound the high keen of his breath and the squelch of his fingers. But he knew better. It was sentiment, plain and simple - and not of the sexual kind.

He likes the kid. Not in a ‘romantic’ way - they’ve already sussed that. But like any man’d like some small whippersnapper who trailed after him and tugged on his coatflaps and as good as pleaded for him to make him a Ravager, someone who could survive among the unforgiving stars. It’s impossible not to get attached to someone you’d raised. Which cements that sleeping with Quill had been the worst decision Yondu’d ever made - but hell, banishing the kid ain’t the answer either. He’s gotta keep him here. He just… can’t give into temptation.

It’s a shame his body ain’t playing ball.

Peter can’t know the effect he’s having, not with the sheer amount of musk Yondu’d upended over himself after hitting the showers. That somehow makes this even more infuriating. Beneath his heavy captain’s coat, Yondu’s throbbing and desperate. His cunt aches - both from the rigorous fingerfucking, the lingering bruises, and the oversensitized burn of an arousal that’s lasted far longer than is pleasurable. It’s a hot gouge, burrowing between his legs, and Yondu’s pressing his knees together in dampening desperation, pulse hiking for every moment Quill stays. The command - _roll me over, fuck me hard_ \- catches in his throat. But only just.

“Think I need a bathroom break,” he manages, rising unsteadily to his feet. He eyes Quill, not quite intending to be seductive - although that’s definitely how it turns out. To the casual onlooker, he looks all predator. Quill’s the only one close enough to see the tremble in his hand, where it clutches the chairarm so tight the tendons stand out against the blue. “C’mon, Quill. Boy. You comin’?” He even manages to make it sound like a question rather than a plea.

Quill’s big now. A bull of a man. Toned and beefy, built like a classic Alpha-male straight from a medical textbook. His chest muscles swell and dip like the topography of an asteroid. Yondu wants to run horny hands over them. He wants to map Quill with his fingers, with his tongue; quest through his tangled chest hair in search of a heartbeat. He’s got broad shoulders and a firm waist, the cut of which is visible through his fitted leathers, and his thighs are thick as the coolant rods that keep the Eclector’s engines from overheating like her captain is right now. Yondu sure feels ready for a meltdown. He can’t stop looking at Quill, can’t stop eating him with his eyes. There’s a sprig of fuzz visible in the dip of his tee, and if Yondu dropped to his knees and rolled that shirt up he knows he’d find more: a landing strip that curls as it nears Quill’s cock…

Oh god. Quill’s cock. Big - that goes without saying. Veined. Curved so that whenever Yondu sits on it it feels like it’s trying to hook itself into his g-spot. Knot at the bottom that plumps up like a grapefruit, keeping him tied, keeping him wide, keeping him _spread for Alpha._

Great. Now he’s stood in the middle of his Bridge, rubbing his slick-streaked thighs over each other like a first-heat bitch. “Shit,” he mutters. Then, because while he might be an Omega he’s sure as fuck not incompetent - “Kraglin. You have command of this sorry lot. I gotta go take a piss.”

The longest piss of his life. While Yondu plans on spending it in a bog-block stall, he doubts he’ll be doing much urinating. Pride stops him from extending the offer to Peter for a second time, although walking away from the big, gormless dolt is only mildly preferable to tweezering off his toenails. He wants it. He needs it. And Mijo’d better concoct some sorta potion sharpish, because at this rate he’s not going to hold out a week.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s impressed with himself, all things considered. Whatever Yondu’s sprayed on himself - _eau de Alpha_ times eleven - it works wonders. While his eyes keep trekking to where the scar on Yondu’s nape is hidden by his collar, jaws working over each other with the urge to renew it, his dick has been sated by the thorough pounding Peter gave his fist. The five thorough poundings, which had been spaced at regular intervals throughout the night. Now, Peter’s young. He’s fit, he’s hale, he’s healthy, and he’s got stamina to spare. But nevertheless, he hopes they get this figured out soon, if only for the sake of his sleep schedule. Can’t go getting wrinkles early - just because he fucks Yondu doesn’t mean he wants to look like the guy.

But if every day’s as easy as this, it’s not going to be too bad. Uncomfortable, yes. Awkward, absolutely. But not unbearable. Heck, Yondu’d made it through second and third shifts without looking at him once! Even if he had come over all squirmy that first time Quill stood by his shoulder, whatever he’d done in the bathroom has been effective - whether it was giving himself a fierce pep-talk in the cracked and greasy mirror, or working himself up and over yet another peak while balancing on the bog.

Yeah, Peter convinces himself once they’re dismissed for the night, and the next Bridge shift rotates in with mugs of a steaming drink that’s the space-dweller’s answer to interplanetary jetlag. They’re gonna be fine.

 

* * *

 

That thought lasts him all the way to midnight. At which point there’s a creak from the ladder of his bunk-stack, almost drowned by the rasping snores from above and below. A solid weight settles with the accuracy of an arrow striking bullseye over Peter’s crotch.

Peter’s eyes snap open. He knows who it is, what this is, even before his brain untangles the intersecting aromas of Alpha and Omega and finds captain underneath.

“Please, Petey.” His voice is a low croon. That hick-accent drawls, spreading each vowel like a butterpat. “Please Petey, please. Want’chu in me, boy. Wanna feel you in here, all big an’ hard an’… Aw hell…” Yondu’s unzipped already. His cunt’s moving over him, soft and hot and slick, damp lips dragging sweetly up and down Peter’s shaft. He can feel it through the thin sleeping pants. It’s a slow, sultry squirm, and it takes every ounce of Peter’s willpower not to peel Yondu open and let his cock do the thinking. The presence of a hundred motley assorted Ravagers helps. Sure, they’re fast asleep for now, but one loud gasp, one filthy moan? Peter and Yondu acquire an audience. And doubtlessly, Yondu’ll blame him. Peter couldn’t live with that.

“No,” he says, although the denial wobbles in his throat. “No, Yondu, no. I said no more sex.”

Yondu’s eyes crack. He looks down at Peter, expression unreadable, hips rolling to an ominous halt. For one awful moment, Peter’s convinced he’s gonna do it - untuck him from his waistband and fuck himself down on his dick without a care for Peter’s pleas to the contrary. His chest clenches, and for a moment he’s genuinely afraid.

Yondu must sense that fear. Not projected on Peter’s face - the dull red haze of the lights are too dim for that. Peter’s barely able to pick out the detail on Yondu’s coat breast, and that’s inches away. But their minds are still melding, even if it’s one-sided. Right now Yondu must be battling against all Peter’s sentiment, which he’d tried so hard to banish during the boy’s youth, now given a live-feed direct to his brain. Somewhere along the line, it sinks in that hard cock or otherwise, Peter doesn’t want this.

Yondu scoots out of penetrating range. Only by a millimeter, but it’s a millimeter that means more to Peter than the entire galaxy.

“Y’don’t understand,” he rasps. Touches himself between the legs, shuddering as he splits that slick-drizzled navy slit. His fake musk has faded over the day. Now the only reminder is a hint of sour, undercutting the aroma of fertile Omega. It’s not nearly strong enough to turn Peter off. In fact, the contrast is ridiculously intense, ridiculously arousing; a reminder of all those times when Yondu pinned him flat to the deck and took his cock any way he liked, dominant and demanding, torturing and teasing in equal measure. He’s not nearly so dominant now. Just needy. That’s something Peter can empathize with. He moans as his knot pulsates, answering the siren-call of pheromones that slide from his captain’s body with every dribble of slick. Yondu only makes it worse when he dips inside himself, hooking out sticky residue to smear on Peter’s pants. “Can’t get off properly, Petey. Need to. Need to so bad. Nights layin’ in my cabin, fuckin’ myself on my fingers… Cum and cum, but it ain’t enough.”

Peter’s cockhead bulges in time with his pulse. His knot’s already a little puffy, although he has yet to give it a rub; hasn’t dug his thumb into the thick groove and pressed until the bloodflow redirects. Yondu doesn’t either, although his hand twitches for it. He pulls back when Peter flinches.

“Please Petey,” he says again. Peter knows how hard it is for him to beg. This right here isn’t sex - the captain’s eyes, glowing the same color as the low-cranked overhead lamps, confirm it. It’s defeat. That doesn’t look right on any man, least of all a Ravager Admiral.

If Peter did as Yondu’d asked him… If he let his dick prong apart the folds, fucked up into that velvety little hole, stuffed him with his knot… Would Yondu stop making that face?

Peter drums up the memory of Mijo, cane swishing against her hand in silent threat. He shudders. Not worth the risk. “Get off,” he says, fisting the sheets so they don’t have a repeat of what happened last time he failed at removing Yondu from his lap. “Go back to bed, cap’n. You’ll only regret this in the morning - and then you’ll probably put me on scrubs or some shit, which is all kinds of unfair.”

Yondu’s quiet chuckle confirms it. He stays there a few seconds longer, like he’s soaking up Peter’s warmth: eyes shut, lip bitten bloody with the effort of restraining the rock from his hips. Peter doesn’t begrudge him it. Just lays there, unresponsive, the war to control his breathing and his heartrate long lost. Eventually a blue hand cups Peter’s cheek, carding the stubble and almost gouging his nostril as Yondu clumsily locates him in the darkness. It pats twice before retreating.

“See ya on Bridge then, kid,” whispers Yondu. He heaves himself away, using the ladder besides the cot as a handhold as if he doesn’t trust his thighs to stay sturdy under him. As he leans back, making to swing out of the cot, the dim light catches on the opened zipper, and Peter sees why. Yondu’s wet. Very wet. Light glints off the clinquant beads as they roll down the leather, highlighting the petals of his cunt like they’ve been varnished. The little puddle he’s left on Peter’s lap is skin-temperature, saturating the threadbare material of his boxers. He wouldn’t know it was there if it weren’t for the smell, the tingle, the rush of heat as it soaks through to his cock. His groan is so loud it startles him. It startles the woman in the bunk above too, who wakes with a growl. That devolves into a snort as she places the culprit. She doesn’t bother to peer over the prow of her cot. This is lucky, because there’s no way she wouldn’t have noticed her captain, hunched and frozen, a dark blue leatherclad gargoyle crushed into the narrow ladder-shaft besides Peter’s bed - and there’s no way Yondu wouldn’t have stuck his arrow between her eyes either.

“Goddammit, Quill. Can ya save it for the showers?” A boot bounces haphazardly off Peter’s jaw and sails to clatter on the floor panels far below. He winces, waving for Yondu to mount the ladder before Peter gives into the urge to drag him back.

“Only thinking of you, Zqo” he teases. He bears the smack of the next dirty sole as his captain props his boots to either side of the rungs and loosens his grip, sliding smoothly into the shadows below. There. He’s gone. They’re safe.

And if he dabbles his fingers through that richly-scented slick and massages it into the head of his cock, looping lazy spirals up and down the shaft until he reaches the knot’s fat globes… Well. Zqo’s already awake. What more harm can a quick jerk do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks to all of my wonderful commenters! Ilu guys x**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which a sex shop is visited**

The end of the week can't come fast enough. Yondu’s practically bouncing as they near the station - or at least, shifting from foot to foot. He’s not opposedto using tampons (or their space-equivalent) during heats, just to soak up the worst of the slick and the smell. But his heat’s never been strong enough to make the tampon itself a source of frustration.

He’s got five in his pocket for this trip - begged from Mijo, borrowed from Trix (the only other Omega on Bridge) and Isla (who’s Alpha, but knows when not to poke fun), or stolen from the lockers outside the shower rooms. Heck knows if they’ll last him. He can already feel a little smear leaking around the first, and he only hopes the fabric patch he’s shoved down his pants, liberally doused in Alpha-musk, goes a way to disguising it.

Kraglin’s looking at him oddly. Kraglin’s been looking at him oddly a lot, as of late.

“Boss? You alright?” He knows Yondu well enough to keep the enquiry quiet, for their ears only. But Yondu still stiffens, still glares. He's satisfied when his first mate lurches a half-step to the rear, eyes glancing to his arrow. Nice to know he can still evoke fear. Heat might dampen his ability to command a bunch of Alphas without fantasizing about bouncing on their pricks, but it sure as heck don’t subdue his temper. The Bridge crew have already sussed that for the next fortnight - because that’s how long heats usually last; Yondu only prays Mijo finds an answer before that deadline - they’d better walk on eggshells. Else they’re due a march out the airlock to inspect the grime caked on the _Eclector’s_ waste chute - with spacemasks only if Yondu’s generous.

Kraglin must be wondering an awful lot of things right about now. Why Yondu hasn’t taken heat blockers, to stop himself squirming whenever he sits in an effort to get more contact between the chairseat and his puss. And, more pressingly, why Yondu hasn’t come knocking at his cabin for their usual tried and tested means of stress-relief.

Well, from what Yondu's heard, their tried-and-tested stress relief might just see him dead. Not that that's not tempting, when there's fire in his belly and no way to stoke or douse it. But hell – he'll try a silicone dick before he breaks himself round Kraglin's.

Of course, this'd all be _so much easier_ if Peter'd only give him what he wanted. Yondu's a greedy guy, and he's got both the power and the lack-of-conscience to chase whatever he sets his eye on with the tenacity of a foxhound. Once he's sunk his jaws into something, he ain't letting go without a fight. But the problem is, he _hasn't_ sunk jaws into Peter. Not yet. And that's where their problems start.

The boy's jittering by the doors. He hasn't said a word to Yondu that ain't work-related, not since _that incident_ of four nights ago, when Yondu'd woken from a near-trance to find himself under the ladder to Peter's bunk, figured _what the heck,_ and climbed on up. He'd been craving and hungry, almost beyond rational thought. And yet somehow, Peter's _No_ had cut through that burning need to be filled, stuffed, bounced on an Alpha's knot until they both found completion. It had been close though. Uncomfortably close. Thinking of what he'd almost done to his own damn kid... That's a terror unlike any Yondu's suffered before. He'd taken things into his own hands after that. If the engineering crew are wondering why he needs a code that will lock a door so not even he can access it for a set duration of the night-cycle, they're too smart to ask.

Nights are definitely the worst. No distractions then; no ships to pillage, plunder to haul, or mutinies-in-the-making to defuse. Yondu'd spent the last one on the floor, curled under his ladder, the darkness as suffocating as the smell of the slick that leaks from between his legs.

He can't help the vindictive hope that Peter's suffering too – although he suspects not. There haven't been any knocks on his trapdoor – which is good, because Yondu would have no way to open it if there were. (...And with that being said, Yondu really fucking hopes no fusion cores explode while he's locked in. There's battering rams in deep storage but he doubts Kraglin could get to them before the fire gets to him.)

When the hatch reels open, revealing this bustling smuggler's port in all its dubious grimy grandeur, Yondu has to clutch the arm of his chair to prevent himself from chasing after Quill. Boy's first out, barging shoulders in his eagerness to be down the gangramp and away. More than a little conjecture follows him. Kraglin, eyeing the white-knuckled grip Yondu has on his nearest dashboard ornament, adds his own.

“Someone's in a hurry. Think our Quill's finally found a girl, ready to settle down?”

Yondu snorts. He waits fifteen seconds, forcing himself not to track Quill's retreating form. When he looks up, the boy's well and truly vanished, swallowed among the overspill of food vendors, peddlers, souvenir salesmen and pickpockets who've swarmed to meet the new potential marks. If any of the latter sort manage to steal from his men without losing fingers, they deserve every chit. “More like he didn't take a piss before take-off. Damn brat.”

“Hm.” Kraglin doesn't sound convinced. When Yondu makes to stand, fighting the quiver in his inner thighs as the tampon rubs sparking nerve endings, Kraglin squeezes his bicep. Anyone watching might assume it's a comradely gesture, of the sort that are regularly tossed about on Bridge. However, to his enduring shame, Yondu has to rely on it to keep his balance, clutching Kraglin's forearm so hard his nails scratch him through the leather.

It can't be easy for Kraglin, or any of the Alphas on the Bridge, knowing there's an Omega among them ready for the fucking. But they're professionals. They can handle it. And if a small, happy furl of warmth loops its coils round Yondu's chest as Kraglin discreetly mutters: “Want me to run yer errands today, sir?” Yondu's got enough professionalism himself to ignore it. He crooks an eyebrow at Kraglin, eyeing the hand on his arm until it retreats back into a dirty pocket.

“You sayin' I can't look after myself, Obfonteri? That I'm an old man who oughta lay in bed and put my feet up rather than bein' out on the streets? Issat what you're sayin'?”

The tone's teasing enough for it not to be taken as a threat. Kraglin thins his eyes at him, just in case, getting his gauge on the situation. Then rolls them, and treats Yondu's side to a light – very light – elbowing. “I'm sayin' that if yer scent-blockers don't hold, sir, ya might be findin' yerself center of some uh, unwanted attention.” The hold's long-cleared by now – it's just them and the pilots, who'll be too busy haggling with the refuellers to eavesdrop. Yondu glares nevertheless. But relents at the harried scowl Kraglin gives him in return. Idjit's just looking out for him. And sure, Yondu neither wants nor needs protection – especially from an _Alpha,_ much less one like Kraglin who's so screwed up in the noggin that he occasionally invites Yondu to shove his knotless pecker up his ass. But hey. It's _nice._ It's the sort of thing an Alpha oughta do for his newly-mated Omega. And as Quill don't plan on spoiling him, Yondu figures he'll take the princess treatment where he can get it.

“Awright,” he says, and smirks as Kraglin's weaselly face lights up. “I got some shit I want. You trawl round the shops sharpish an' bring it back here for me, right boy?”

“Right,” Kraglin agrees. He looks damn happy about being given grunt work, although it's unbeffiting for a man of his station. Yondu'd mistrust that expression – would count his change into and out of Kraglin's hands, and have him take a bite of every bit of foodstuff he bought – if Kraglin hadn't shirked every opportunity to stab him in the back in the past, even those Yondu laid out himself to test him. “Yessir, I'll get you anything you ask.”

Obviously, Yondu ain't leaving him in charge of picking out fucktoys. For a start, Kraglin'd wanna be the one to put them in him – and while that sounds all kinds of fun, it's also tempting disaster. Yondu rattles off a generic shopping list – booze and leather polish and windscreen wax and the like. It'll take Kraglin all round the outskirts of the market, occasionally doubling back on himself, because while the idjit can pilot a ship the size of the _Eclector_ through an asteroid field, or through the empty doldroms of deep space with barely a dwarf star for reference, give him a map on ground level and he's useless. That gives Yondu plenty of time to nip out, source a suitable silicone knot, and make off with it before his tampon soaks through. Kraglin won't even know he's left.

 

* * *

 

Peter hates this.

He's a womanizer, dammit. Never tied down, free-roaming, a knight on the streets and a freak between the sheets. If he had a resume, that would be on it. But _no,_ he has to walk _past_ the cooing girls who gather on the dock to greet the Ravagers in, walk _past_ the neon-lit sleaze of the bar where interstellar travellers and backpacking Xandarian bombshells searching for the wild side of life gather. He has to ignore every cocked hip and perfect, tweakable tit in his path.

It's being untrue to himself, untrue to his nature – all because of stupid bonds and stupid Alpha/Omega dynamics and _mind melds,_ which enable Yondu to spy on his every thought (so Peter assumes; it ain't like Yondu's divulged the details, other than that lost little “feels like drowning” that still snags on Peter's thoughts when he's trying to sleep at night).

And then, to make matters worse, he has to walk into a sex shop – the only one on this station; understandable given the number of whores – and buy silica genital moulds. Like he ain't capable of heading into any establishment in this quadrant and sauntering back out again with at least three Omegas, possibly a Beta or Alpha for variety, hooked in his arms.

He feels the need to inform the shopkeeper of this: a small, round, sleek-haired woman of Kymellian origins. Her hoofs kick unintrestedly at the underside of her counter.

“I can get laid, y'know. I totally don't need these.” He dumps his selection of fleshlights – three of them, all in varying shades of blue – on the tabletop. They land with a plasticy squish. “See? Ugh, they smell weird...” The woman starts scanning, one eyebrow raised.

“Sure you don't need 'em, sweetheart. An' if ya don't like the smell, try some scented lubricant.”

“Well, it's true!” Grumbling under his breath, Peter takes stock of the inventory behind her. He points out a range of tubes, whose labels promise _enduring pleasure_ and _entrancing musk._ The woman nods, still looking thoroughly bored.

“Good choice, sir. These have hormonal additives to mimic the tingling of an Omega's slick. The sensation can be unusual, to inexperienced Alphas...”

Peter draws himself up. His face is steadily pinking, like he's been left out in the sun. “I am an experienced Alpha! The most experienced! I fuck more pussies than you keep in stock -”

There's a pressure pad beneath the welcoming mat; its buzz announces the next customer. “Aw hell,” Yondu says. He turns and makes to walk back out again. Then realizes what that would look like – a retreat; unthinkable! – and keeps on spinning until he's facing the far shelves, in the opposite direction to the till.

Peter struggles not to watch his ass shift under the leather coat, as he bends to rummage through the discount bargain bin of dicks. He doesn't finish his sentence. But that's okay, because the shopowner's evidently heard worse. She writes him off as another underlaid nerd, scans the last of his items, rattles off the number of chits he's owing, and makes a show of biting each one before popping them into her purse for safekeeping. “Well, you have fun, hun. Next?”

Peter puffs up. “I can have fun without a goddam silicon vagina – uh, Yondu? I'm not paying for yours too. And – shit, that's massive! Did you really find that in the bargain bin?”

“Yep,” says Yondu cheerfully. “Fifty bronze chits each, says it on the billboard.” Peter notices the missing pricetag, and sighs.

“Before or after you snipped that off?”

The shopkeeper snatches the toy, its bulbous bottom looking ridiculously oversized as she turns it between her pudgy hands. “Luckily, I know the price of my wares. This is five hundred silver units.”

The knot Yondu's selected is a full size bigger than Peter's. Peter wonders if he should be offended. Then remembers how often he's made his captain cum just from popping the fattening globes in and out of his puss, and smirks to himself. Yondu elbows him. “What? I ain't paying for that.”

“Hell yeah you are! Seein' as ya got us into this...” Lord. He's never going to let that one go, is he? Sure, Peter deserves it – but still. Yondu lifts his chin, huffing stale air in Peter's face. “I figure it's the least ya can do buy me a goddam plastic cock. Specially as yours is gonna be useless to me for the next fuckin' decade.”

Luckily, there's no other customers in the store. They must be out and about, enjoying the genuine warm fleshly delights that are to be found in this port's multitudinous brothels. The station has so many that it's actually set up a webstie dedicated to reviewing and ranking. There's an institute just over the road, already crawling with Ravagers, but the redcoats are all too busy wooing the whores to notice where their captain and second mate have wandered off to. No chance of anyone overhearing. And the shopkeeper's mouth snaps shut when Yondu taps his arrow, and slides a gold chit from his pocket to crown his little pile of goodies.

“For the gear, then. And yer silence.” She raises it to her mouth, fingers trembling as she enacts the customary bite. When her teeth clack off the platinum plates, the softer gold beneath indenting at the pressure, she gasps and fumbles it into her purse so fast it slips from her fingers, and would've skittered off under the counter if Yondu hadn't stomped on it.

“There,” he said, adding in a roguish little smirk that shouldn't make Peter's stomach flipflop, but which absolutely does. “Keep the change.”

“We're supposed to be avoiding each other,” Peter can't help but comment, as they emerge from under the awning – Yondu sticking an arm in front of Peter's chest and peering in both directions, before deciding that anyone watching is too drunk to see straight.

“Right you are, boy. Go on then. I need a fuckin' drink.”

And he sets off, towards the whorehouse. The whorehouse that's crawling with Alphas. _Ravager_ Alphas, at that – and while Peter's first to protest the notion that all Alphas are rapists – or all Ravagers at that – he does have, as it's called in their line of work, _a_ _bad feeling about this._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Been a while! Sorry; got distracted with other WIPs.... Still, have some brewing Kragdu, and a good ol' cliffhanger. ;)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **IT'S BEEN SO LONG**

“Boss,” he says, hurrying after Yondu. Yondu shoots him a sidelong stink-eye.

“This ain't 'avoiding'.”

“Look, how's about...” He scrambles for words, anything that'll keep Yondu outside without making him feel like he's being talked down to. Because if that happens, heaven help the lot of them – Yondu most of all, who in this mood is liable to climb on a table, loudly proclaim his status to the galaxy, and invite anyone who wants to take him for a spin to fucking well try it. “How's about you hold the bags and I fetch the drinks?” he finishes lamely.

The look Yondu gives him is nine parts frustration to one fury: a potent cocktail under any circumstances, but far worse when stirred and shaken by his Heat. “Why's everyone keep tryin' to do shit for me?”

“Maybe because we're  _being nice?_ ” He doesn't ask who else has been offering Yondu favors. Not because he doesn't want to know, but because he doesn't give a damn. Obviously. “No thank you?”

“Kid, you deserve a knuckle sandwich and a whistle before one of them. Just cause of what I got between -” He clamps his mouth shut as a Ravager chases a giggling whore out the door, tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to catch her and give Yondu the chest-thumps all at once.

He pops on a grin, dispensing a wink and a shove at the Ravager's back. As soon as the man's stumbled off, the expression slips away. Yondu's frownlines enhance his glower, carving steep wadis around his scowl. “Just cause what I am,” he repeats, voice lowering dramatically as they near the establishment, “don't mean I need babyin'. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter agrees. He looks anything but convinced.

As soon as the door swings to behind them, Yondu dedicates himself to losing his tag-along in the crowd. But he's taught the boy too well. Peter knows his endgame's the bar, so that's where he loiters – by the time Yondu mkaes his circuit of the ground floor, squeezing fleshy body parts as they're presented to him and exchanging fist knocks and smirks with any Ravager who offers, he's puffing and sweaty, sticky under his leathers.

Peter sighs and scoots a glass. It perspires too, but the condensation is blessedly cool, and Yondu holds it to both sides of his face with a relieved (some might say  _grateful_ ) grunt, before remembering he's supposed to be mad at him.

“The fuck you still here for?”

“Making sure you don't get into trouble.”

Yondu tips the glass away from down-quirked lips. “I don't need yer help. Weren't ya listenin'?” Boy might be a bit old for Yondu to bend him over his knee, but that don't mean he won't put forth a damn good effort if the brat keeps back talking. Peter sighs again, like Yondu's being the unreasonable one.

“Look, just because I don't wanna... y'know.” His hand raises, and for a moment Yondu thinks he's gonna stick it down his collar, stroke the scar left by his teeth. Yondu bares his own in preparation. Rather than completing the gesture, Peter opts to keep his fingers, and waggles them midair. “That doesn't mean I don't give a shit about you, boss. Plus, I got a responsibility.”

Oh, big bad Alpha deciding to step up and care for the Omega he accidentally mated? Like Yondu ain't seen that soap opera plot a thousand times (maybe if Xandar quit making their broadcasting network less easy to hack, he and his boys would quit doing so). By now, that storyline is trite bordering cliché.

“ _Responsibility,_ ” he mocks, finishing his drink with a loud burp – swizzler, kiddo's favorite. “An' if you've put a brat in my belly, what then? Gonna take responsibility for that too?”

Peter grimaces. “Keep your voice down...”

“You don't give the _fuckin'_  orders!”

The shout has the barman taking several steps away from them, as well as any Ravagers and whores sober enough to fear a whistle through the spinal cord. Peter cringes too, hands upraised like he expects a smack. When none comes he lowers them, and Yondu hates the way his huge eyes and sweaty top lip make an answering ache twist in his chest. He can feel Peter’s fear, and it stabs his mind like acupuncture pins.

Another ache gouges lower. He does his best to ignore it.

“You,” he says, leaning to blast Peter's cheek in booze-breath, “had better tread  _very fuckin' carefully here,_ boy.”

Peter snorts. “I always gotta tread carefully with you. Why d'you think we ain't never gonna work as a couple?” He calms his jittery hands by chasing dribbles back up the side of his glass. “That and the, uh. Thing. Where I -”

“Want me as a cap'n, not a whatever the fuck we were tryin' to force.” Yondu's glad, truly he is. Never wanted to be tied down to nobody, least of all this Terran brat.

The clamor restarts slowly. Ain't much that can keep a gang of randy Ravagers from partying, least of all their Captain having a domestic with his pet. Yondu turns on his seat, kicking his bag of goodies to ensure all the bulgy bits are stowed. Sure, bringing them here ain't the wisest idea, but so long as he don't trip and send them flying to patter around Taserface's boots like fleshy phallic hail, they ain't no threat to him.

He counts through the crowd, locating his Bridge crew one by one. Trix. Isla. Czar. No Kraglin, of course – guy's off running his errands. He's gonna be mighty disappointed if he gets back to ship and finds Yondu doing anything other than having a kip with his feet up. Yondu don't  _care_ about that, of course, but Kraglin becomes marginally more annoying when he's narked. Yondu resolves to down his drink, leave Quill to work out the function of his fleshlight, and head on back.

His body has other ideas.

Yondu's first hint is the tackiness in his underwear. His second, the way Peter cranks stiff, nostrils flaring, eyes wide enough to show the whites.

Lust sneaks into his mind. It ain't his own, foreign and all the more intoxicating for it. It emanates from the Terran beside him, threaded through with trepidation.

His third hint? Well, that's the nearby ring of Ravagers. One by one, they raise their heads in the air and sniff.

Yondu realizes what's happening at around the same time one of them licks his lips. “Who the fuck brought a horny Omega in here?”

Name's Scrote, or something equally flattering. His drinking buddy, Brahl, wrenches away from his hooker, slapping her when she tries to slink back into his attentions. His nose flaps flutter like fish gills.

“Mmmm. They better share, is all.”

Yondu shifts on his seat. The moistness at the top of his thighs doesn't evaporate.

Peter fists his pant legs, staring straight ahead. The scratch of his nails on the leather somehow sounds louder than the rumble from all around them, as Ravagers snigger and crack their knuckles and glance around, sieving the air in an effort to siphon that sweet Omega stink from the booze and vomit and odors from the occasional corpse.

Time to go. He's leaked through his tampon. Changing in the bathroom ain't worth the risk – although the bunged-up drain might go a way towards disguising the pheromones. He's gotta get outta here.

But he ain't the only Omega in the place.

Trix. Shit.

He stands up, searching for that puff of bright orange hair and the full-face mask and goggles. Can't yell. Too obvious. He acts like he's joining the hunt, kicking his stool in and swigging the last of his drink. He belches, slamming his tankard down with a victorious crack.

There! Czar, Trix, and a few other choice members of the Bridge crew. They're all making a surreptitious break for the door.

They’re not the only Ravagers leaving. Yondu knows him and her ain't the only Omegas on board, although he ain't bastard enough to demand a census. People only join a crew of space pirates if they're running from something, and most Omegas have plenty to run from.

He's heard of captains who, when their galleons run outta juice three jumps from a whoreport, out any Omegas to save themselves a mutiny. While there's a helluva lotta Bad Shit Yondu would do in that situation, traitoring his own kind ain't on that list.

He looks away from the blanching Luphomoid as he hurries to the door, and the low-ranking Xandarians twins that follow him. Don't need to memorize them. How they handle themselves is their own business. If he commits their faces to mind, he'll only start  _looking out for them_ like he looks out for Trix, and he can only spare so much concentration.

Trix don't need his whistle though, not today. The rest of the Bridge got her out, lolling in a faux-drunken mess, pretending not to notice that ripe tang of an Omega on the taproom floor. They trust Yondu to manage this – or, more accurately, they know what he'll do to them if he suspects he's being coddled.

Quill ain't so smart.

“Sir,” he whispers. He leans close, lips cresting the whorl of Yondu's ear. He ain't washed 'em recently, but Quill doesn't seem to care – that or his heart's fluttering just as fast as Yondu's, up by his uvula, spurred by their proximity. His anticipation jitters through Yondu’s veins. “We oughta get moving.”

Unseen by any but the bartender, his hand cups Yondu's ass. Quill's probably telling himself he's using it to push him along. Yondu wonders if that's any more convincing in the kid's own head.

Yondu shuts his eyes. He allows himself to enjoy the scratch of Peter's stubble against his earlobe, the torrid drag of his breath, the firm, shaking pressure of his fingers. He wants it. Fuck, he wants it. Bad. So bad.  _Too_ bad.

The bartender is one witness too many. They can't do this, not here. Not anywhere, not anymore.

Yondu sweeps all thoughts of being shoved face first on the countertop out of his head. Yeah, Quill  _could_ show the Ravagers who he belongs to, growling and snapping behind him, rutting him in fierce fast bursts that pummel Yondu against the table. But... Quill  _don't_ own him. No one does, no one ever will, no matter what his stupid fucking  _hormones_ are insisting. They’re just conspiring to get as much cum in him as possible – even if that means baiting his mate into mounting him by attracting other Alphas.

“I hate this shit,” he growls. He snatches Quill’s wrist, thumb and forefinger locking over broad Terran bones. “C'mon. We's splittin'.”

A shadow falls over them, dark as a solar eclipse. It's followed by a wash of raw leather and sweat, compounded by the stink of...

Sausage.

Cooked sausage.

Overdone, to be precise.

“An' why,” drawls Taserface, standing a good head above the jeering, hooting Ravagers to either side, “is that?”

A snail slithers about in his underwears, leaving a slippery trail. The first bead that runs down Yondu's leg makes his nose scrunch, although he dons an angry grimace to compensate. His tampon squishes inside him, saturated through. Having overcome that barrier, a warm freshet trickles between his thighs. It's a miracle he ain't withered up from dehydration.

That in mind, Yondu downs the dregs of Peter's beer too.

“Because,” he says, wiping hoppy foam from his lip, “I don't get nothin' outta watchin' you take turns with some mewlin' Omega bitch what can't say no. Ain't my scene, m'fraid.”

The remainders of his Bridge crew exchange glances. They're smart men, smart enough to know what'll happen to them if they ever let slip their captain's secret. But are they smart enough to know who'd win, if it comes to a one-on-several match: Yondu versus his gluttunous, knot-sporting clan?

Yondu don’t get a chance to worry about that. Peter  _snarls_.

It rumbles up from his stomach, bass and vibrato, reverberating every organ in its path. Yondu can't tamp down on his shiver, can't stop his knees pressing together, thighs rubbing to simulate the friction of an Alpha, his Alpha, moving between them, over him,  _inside him..._

Peter stalks forwards. He pushes at Taserface's chest, hard enough to rock him. Yondu doesn't need to see his face to know that his pupils are exploded black holes, his blunt Terran canines on show.

They're of a height, Quill and Tasie. Yondu's stupid pheromone-steeped brain decides now would be an excellent time to feed him the image of the pair of them taking him together, one in each hole.

Ugh. Like he'd let that crusty dick anyway near his druthers. Scarring ain't contagious, but Taserface's mug leaks pus like one of the  _Eclector's_ more temperamental faucets, and his cock won’t be any better. Yondu don't wanna pick up whatever the a-hole contracted last time he used an unwashed bot.

Plus, there's that small thing where he and Taserface  _hate each other._ Why’s his heat lusting after that big-bellied braggart, if he can't bed down with no one but his mate?

His body is an insistent master. It croons in his ear:  _imagine it. Taserface in yer ass – that don't count, right?  Won't put'chu into shock. Pair of them sliding in, stretching you out, filling you up so good, so sweet, passing you between 'em, back an' forth, lil' blue fucktoy..._

Bullshit. He's a captain. He ain't and never will be that Omega, wrung out to a daze-eyed drooling cumrag, his only use his holes. It's a shitty old stereotype, and while some of his kind get off on it, he ain't never been one of them.

Fights often break out when Alphas are driven to this state of testosterone-fueled mayhem. The barkeep retreats, taking his prize whisky bottles with him. Not a moment too soon. Ravagers vault onto the counter, prowl through the shadows, crouch under tables in search of their lost quarry. Betas are the most common denomination, although among crews like Yondu's, even those who ain't Alphas pretend to be.

Yondu should've followed him down the bolt hole. But if he can't reveal what's tucked under his bollocks, he definitely can't run away.

Which means he's gotta handle this the old-fashioned way. The Alpha way; the only way his idjit crew respect.

Taserface and Quill size each other up. They stalk around a locus, issuing rumbles of warning that remind Yondu of the bullfrogs back on Alpha Centauri. Quill’s emotions leak over their bond: possessive rage, lust and bloodlust in equal measure.

It's ain't all posture. This is the threat display before a fight. Ain't neither of them gonna back down.

“You ain't Omega!” Taserface lunges to smack his forehead off Peter's. Peter winces, but doesn't drop. He recovers quick, pressing forwards into the blow, eyes locked on Taserface's from an inch a way. Yondu doesn't gag imagining the scratch of peeling scars on Quill's eyebrows, but that's only because he's occupied: imagining how nicely he'd fit around that long fat slug Taserface keeps tucked down his pants leg.  _Ugh._

“I smell it on ya though.” Scars crinkle towards Tasie's nose like alpine ridges branching out from a fissure. “Smell  _him_ too.” He jerks his chin at Yondu, greasy black braids slapping his jacket breast. “Wonder why that is.”

Quill punches him in the gut, hard enough to open a foot of distance. “You stay the  _fuck_ away from him.”

This has gone on long enough. Yondu lets Quill protect him? He might as well flip up his coat, unfasten his pants, and select a comfortable table he can bend over while gripping the far side.

Arrow? Too distant. Too impersonal. He's gotta make an impression; one these horny bastards ain't likely to forget, even as cocks swell behind zippers and breeding urges thrum into overdrive.

Yondu studies Peter's empty glass, lips pursed. It's almost peaceful in that moment, the noise from the Ravager horde fading as they watch the fight unfold. Then, before Taserface can return the blow and turn this into an all-out Alpha-v-Alpha bloodbath, Yondu brings the glass down on the counter edge.

Smash. Shards explode in every direction, a few nicking his bare hands. Yondu don't care. He doesn't feel the blood, doesn't see the wide-eyed stares of his men. The ring in his ears hits a peak, drowning out all but the scrape of boots over the floor as Quill and Taserface lope the circumference of their circle, egged by the whoops and hollers and baying roars.

They're as locked in their world as he in his. He walks towards them, slow and serene. His bottle twinkles in his hand. It catches the rare glimmer of sun through the bar's soupy atmosphere, clogged as it is with booze fumes and huffer smoke. Even in the depths of their rut-hungry delirium, the Ravagers get out his way. They scent the air as he passes, frown, shuffle closer, hands reaching out almost on instinct – but ain't none of them far gone enough to risk Tasie's fate.

Yondu lurks on the sidelines until Taserface stands in front of him, calves bunched in preparation to dive his Terran to the sticky bar floor. He walks up and taps him on the shoulder.

Taserface doesn't whirl around. He ain't stupid enough to show an angry Alpha his back. But he does glance rearwards, just once.

That's more than enough time for Yondu to introduce his bottle's edge to the piggy glint of an eye.

Here's the thing. Taserface is loud, Taserface is popular, Taserface is just as bombastic and brutal as Yondu (albeit, Yondu assures himself as the big man  _screams,_ shrill enough to induce tinnitus, not nearly so intelligent, or as handsome). But that doesn't mean shit to his following.

Yondu can't butcher him without an uprising. Taserface ain't accused him of anything to his face, only insinuated. That's enough for a brig stint, an ass-kicking, maybe a touch of grievous bodily harm.

Yondu twists his wrist, a practised flick.  _Pop._ The eyeball squelches from its socket, optic nerve tethering it to his skull. It dangles down Taserface's cheek, his other rolled back. He keels slow, scream descending into a moan, a whimper, silence.

Yondu turns him onto his back. Picking up his discarded bag of dicks, he treads over the downed pirate, planting his dirty boot square on his chest. He drops the bottle to shatter beside his slack-jawed, blood-stained face, not bothering to wipe the splashes from his cheeks.

Warpaint, or something.

This time, when he stalks for the exit, nobody gets in his way. Quill, warring between primal needs – protect mate; defend mate; kill opponent – looks back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until he tempts whiplash. To Yondu's disappointment, he elects to follow him rather than finish Taserface off.

“The hell was that?”

He waits until they're outside the bar. Must be preservation instinct. Yondu doesn't have another bottle on him, but his talons are sharp, and if Quill called his judgment into question in front of his men, he can't promise he wouldn't have woken up beside Taserface in Mijo's medbay with a matching eyepatch.

“What?” he grunts.

“You don't gotta fight my battles! I can fight my battles!”

“Same in reverse, kid.” Now the adrenaline's worn off, his groin itches something rotten, wet leather chafing the skin. “Shit. C'mere.” He stomps into a suitably dingy-looking alley, lined with trashbags that've burst like moomba carcasses on a hot day. Stinks something awful. Hopefully, enough to drown out his slew of come-hither pheromones, as he squats in the shadows, eases his zipper down – pulling faces at the peel of his soaked underpants off his crotch – and tugs out his tampon.

A silky string follows it. Then another, and another; slick drools hot from Yondu's core. The tampon's soaked through, and when Quill groans and starts forwards, Yondu lobs it at him. It hits his cheek with a soggy splat, glissading through his stubble to plop from the bottom of his chin.

Quill boggles a moment before retching. He scrapes the slime on his cheek. “Ugh! Oh my god, that's disgusting!”

Yondu grins at him, fishing the next from his pocket. He blows off the lint – shouldn't have unwrapped the damn things, except that he was aware he might have to do this surreptitious-like, and didn't want the crinkle of plastic to give him away. He stays squatted as he pushes it in, and sponges off the worst of the gunk with his coat sleeve before fastening his pants.

“Ain't like you never had it on yer face before.”

“You  _threw_ a  _tampon_ at me!”

“Be grateful my cunt don't shed every Lunar. Could've had a lot worse than slick on it.”

“Still  _fucking disgusting!_ ”

“Huh.” Yondu unrolls, smirk pronging for both ears. “Was gonna suggest ya sucked on it, actually. Seein' as we ain't hookin' up no more.”

Peter shudders. He grinds the tampon, very deliberately, into the filth that covers the pavement in an inch-thick blanket of fungus and mould. But his nostrils quiver wide, and when Yondu passes him, breezing for the high street once more, he groans in the back of his throat.

For a moment, Yondu lets his overactive imagination run rampant. Quill could pick him up, pin him to the wall. Wrap Yondu's legs around his waist and bounce him there, no penetration required. Just two men grinding on each other, offering a little friction. That wouldn't be breaking Mijo's rules, right?

But there is such a thing as a slippery slope. If they set off down it, they ain't gonna be able to stop. Yondu holds his carrier bag tight, the handles cutting the bloodflow from his fingers. That's useful, considering the amount of little glass chunks embedded under the skin. “Stay here,” he grits, leading the way. “I'm goin' back to ship. You ain't followin' me, not until we hit curfew.”

Quill blinks, a touch taken aback. Potentially even  _hurt._ But then the sense of what Yondu's saying hits. He swallows thickly, nodding. “Someone needs to haul Tasie along. Don't think there's many others strong enough to carry him.” He says that last phrase with a bragging air. Yondu rolls his eyes.

“What'chu want – a medal?”

“Well, I mean. If you've got one to give.”

Cute kid. Cheeky kid, irritating kid, but always his damn kid. No matter how much they've fucked up their relationship, ain't nothing in this galaxy can alter that.

Yondu chuckles. He touches Quill just once, before he leaves that alley and sets off towards the setting sun. It's a hair ruffle, like the ones he used to give to the boy who bumbled around top deck after him, sticking his tongue out at the Ravagers and hiding behind his captain's legs for fear of retaliation.

Quill's right about one thing – he doesn't need to hide behind Yondu anymore. Wouldn't work anyway, considering how damn  _big_ he's grown.

“Go on,” he says, nodding to Quill's own selection from the sex shop. “Put 'em to use. You an' me, we gotta long way to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kisses for every kudo/comment <3**

**Author's Note:**

> **Full prompt: So Terra's got some fairly traditional A/B/O values, where Alphas and Omegas are expected to act respectively dominant/submissive even outside of their heats or seasons or whatever, and in all walks of life - so, bedroom, domestic, and work. Some planets share them, but most don't.**
> 
> **Peter's too young to care about A/B/O when he's picked up by the Ravagers, but he's internalized a lot of Alpha-superiority. So he just assumes that Yondu and the rest of the badass Ravagers are all Alphas. Then when he turns eighteen and starts going through seasons, he finds out he's an Alpha, and all of that inbuilt entitlement starts coming out - he expects to be treated with respect just because of that, and says some unintentionally rude stuff about the omega girls and guys he sleeps with.**
> 
> **One day Yondu comes up to him and is like 'hey boy, want to sleep with an Omega?' and Peter's like 'yeah, sure. Wait, who?' Yondu proceeds to dom the fuck out of him while riding his dick, and saunters casually off having proved his point that Omegas can be badass as fuck.**
> 
> **A+ for Peter being consenting but kinda laughing as will as disbelieving - 'no way is the captain an Omega and no way would an Omega be able to dom me' - but ends up really, really enjoying it.**
> 
> **A+++ for him awkwardly apologizing to some of the Omegas he'd slighted in the past, while Yondu laughs his ass off in the background.**


End file.
